


Pocketful of Posies (The Language of Flowers is Fuck You)

by 25postcards



Series: never simple, never easy [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Coping, Depression, Emotional Healing, Flowers, Frottage, Gardening, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Loss, M/M, Pining, Road Trips, Slow Build, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, canon up to 3b, derek trying to get better, mental health, post 3b, some elements of s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2385809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/25postcards/pseuds/25postcards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath the nogitsune and the death of Allison, Derek finds Stiles struggling to cope. Remembering that feeling of helplessness, guilt after the death of his own family, Derek helps Stiles deal.</p><p>Helping Stiles means picking up the pieces of his own life; reconnecting with Cora and finding meaning in Beacon Hills again.</p><p>aka Stiles plants flowers to cope and Derek tries to get his shit together</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. find a place where we can be alone

**Author's Note:**

> I've worked super hard on this for a year+ and I really hope you enjoy!
> 
> No major tags for this chapter except minor substance abuse.

“Bury your past in the garden by the tulips, water it until it is so alive and lets you go and you belong to yourself again.” -Andrea Gibson, Royal Heart

__  


artwork by [Jaimie](http://halesfire.tumblr.com/)  


Derek finds Stiles two miles outside of the border of Hale territory in the Preserve. It’s fairly early in the morning on a Saturday. The sun’s not even fully up yet, so it takes him by surprise that anyone is out in the woods, let alone someone he knows.

Stiles is crouched down on his knees, hunching over something Derek can’t see from this far away. He spots a backpack a few yards away, leaning against a tree, and watches as Stiles’ shoulders move in a steady, repetitive beat. He doesn’t notice Derek at all, fully engrossed in whatever it is he’s doing.

“Stiles,” Derek finally announces, firmly and Stiles swivels on his kneecaps in one fluid motion. Derek simply raises an eyebrow as a question and Stiles stands up immediately. His face is flushed and smeared with dirt, and the energy off him feels fidgety and off somehow. Derek glances down at Stiles’ big hands covered by a pair of mismatching gloves; one is traffic cone orange and rubbery, a workman’s glove. Presumably his dad’s, from the way it hangs a little too big around Stiles’ slender wrists. The other one is a pale pink, covered in dark, damp dirt. A women’s glove.

Stiles notices Derek’s line of focus and quickly pulls them off, shoving them into his pocket.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Uh,” Stiles says, swallowing. “I’m just,” he pauses, and huffs out a little, taking a moment to argue with himself in his quick thinking head. “I’m planting some flowers,” he says eventually, voice falling flat.

Derek takes a few steps forward and maneuvers around Stiles to take a look at the work, and Stiles chases after him hastily. “Look, I didn’t really think anyone would be out here. I made sure I was outside of Hale territory and everything, okay?”

There’s a crate of half emptied peonies in bright reds, purples and pinks next to a bag of potting soil and a few tools. Derek kneels next to them, and turns his head at Stiles, frowning. “What for?” He can’t help his curiosity, and these days,it seems easier to communicate.

“It’s just a thing I do,” he shrugs and sighs. He crouches back down to thumb lightly at the petals. “My mom used to love gardening,” he says, voice going soft and distant. Derek tilts his head, and lets his eyes roam over the furrow of Stiles’ brow, his sharp cheekbones, more distinct than he remembers when they first met. There’s sweat beading at his temple, and dip of his cupid’s arch and he smells like sweat and earth and sorrow.

“She’d always tell me how much she wanted to guerilla garden, find little pieces of dirt in the town and bring something back to life there. After she died, I just started up. I thought if she couldn’t, then I would. And maybe she’d know, you know? It’s probably stupid,” he lets out a small, choked out laugh and without even thinking Derek’s hand comes up and rests on the back of his neck and squeezes gently. Stiles freezes, and glances at Derek, then clears his throat and pulls away.

“Anyway, sorry if I-. Yeah, just sorry.”

Derek stands up suddenly. He wants to say, you should never feel guilty for missing her, for wanting to keep a part of her alive somehow. But it feels hypocritical when he’s lived inside the house of the dead and smoke and fire for the better part of last year. “You shouldn’t be,” is all he manages. It’s better than nothing.

It’s silent for a while. Stiles picks up a small shovel and spends a few minutes digging another hole while Derek watches. It’s fascinating, the quiet yield of the earth that Stiles carves out. As he works, his energy starts to calm to a steady buzz.

“Don’t tell Scott about this. It’d just worry him and he’s got enough going on,” Stiles says without looking up. A secret. Derek had been good at secrets once. He hid the smell of her in the house, the way her vicious smile curved around his ear as she pinned him down and rode him, ruthless in every way. Secrets were his shame.

This one feels different though. More solid and quiet. “Sure.”

 

+|+

 

[_rosebay;_](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tVEkzvTX0lA/ThMXSVHvBeI/AAAAAAAAG38/79fKhEcMyQM/s1600/Rudston+Road+052.JPG)beware

He's seen this before. The flowers are familiar. They’re the same kinds that he used to find scatterings all throughout town and through the preserve topped with freshly laid dirt and carelessly left bags of potting soil.

Laura had found the flowers first when they walked home from school together. They were hot pink flowers, tall and straight ones Derek had never seen before. Laura laughed in delight at how they surrounded a yellow, old, ugly fire hydrant and took pictures of them with her old vintage camera, because she was always in phases. And this phase was a newfound dream of becoming a famous photographer.

“Who do you think did this? They’re so pretty!” she said, taking a snap or two, then stopped to refocus her lens.

He shrugged half-heartedly, not really interested in the flowers at all. His mind was other places. Kate and him had their first fight, and he tried not to be mopey.

“Come with me to develop these. I’m out of film,” she said, taking him by the hand and dragging him the opposite side of town. The photos came out sun-damaged.

 

_[catchfly/Silene virginica;](http://www.dontveter.com/howtogrow/sileregi.jpg) _ snare

 

The next time they found them, the pack was out running the territorial borders. Wolf Moon was in less than a week, and the pack had to prepare for celebrations and renew treaties with a surrounding pack a hundred miles south. Derek almost trampled over them, thinking they were weeds, except for the sharp, small orange petals bursting from them. Laura nearly crashed into him when he made a quick half step to avoid them, and she growled at him when she had to dig her claws into the dirt to slow down.

And after that, they spotted them a few more times along some trails, and along the sidewalks of Main street, cheery and bright, and out of place. Laura smiled every time, and Derek asked her why she liked them so much. “They’re just stupid flowers,” he said.

Then she grinned at him, “Well don’t you think they’re kind of like us? They don’t really fit in anywhere here. They’re like unstoppable nature in a manmade place. I think that’s what being a werewolf means. We don’t fit in, but we’re blending. We’re making it work.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but smiled at her anyway. “I guess,” he said, his smile widening.

Cora found them next, in an empty lot near a convenient store in pretty blues and purples. She was 11 then, and was determined that black was her favorite color. But she still couldn’t help but bend down, gasping at how vibrant the flowers were. Laura and her spent time making flower crowns, and Cora made Derek bend down to put one on his head, giggling with delight.

“I think it’s fairies,” Cora said in a singsong voice. Derek tickled her under her chin, smiling when she shied away.

“Sure,” he said fondly.

+|+

Derek decides not to tell Stiles this. The work Stiles’ is doing is meant to be anonymous, and telling him that someone noticed it, that Laura loved it, somehow feels wrong, intimate.

They don’t see each other for a while, not that they commonly did before anyway. Just because they have a secret between them now, doesn’t mean they’re necessarily on friendlier terms.

And yet it doesn’t explain why he’s standing in a hardware store, holding a pair of men’s gardening gloves. He tries to convince himself it’s anything else but the image of Stiles’ hands in mismatched gloves, and the look of guilt on his face that made him pick them up.

He ends up buying them before he can stop himself and drops them off at the flower patch next time he goes for a run in the preserve.

He doesn't hear from Stiles at all for the next couple of weeks. There aren't anymore flowers for a long time either. Not until after the Alpha pack and nogitsune pass.

He sees him around town one day, bumping shoulders with Scott. He can’t see his face, but his whole body is lit up in a smile, his head thrown back in a laugh, limbs gesturing wildly. Scott notices Derek first, and gives him a small, tight smile, still unsure with how their relationship stands. Scott is growing into himself though, more confident and sure in his abilities. A surge of pride wells in Derek, and makes him ache at the same time. He wishes things could be different with them, but Derek wishes a thousand small things.

Derek shifts the bag of laundry he’s got over one shoulder, and gives them both nods. Stiles eyes flicker with something unreadable for a split second before he reels back in, face going smarmy with sarcasm.

"Hey, Derek," Scott offers in peace. Stiles has gone quiet next to him and Derek can't stop glancing down at those long, pale fingers. Stiles leans against Scott, and slips his hands into his pockets causing Derek to look up. Stiles’ eyes meet his, wavering again before he flicks them casually back to Scott’s face.

They talk politely about something that Derek doesn't even remember before the boys wave him off and head into the bowling alley down the street. He watches them for a moment before swinging his laundry bag off his shoulder to peek into it. He’s too listless now to start a load so he heads back to his car.

He supposes he isn't surprised when Stiles shows up at his loft the next day, looking sheepish.

"Stiles."

"Thanks for the gloves. Um, I haven't really been able to use them cause-"

"Yeah, I know,” Derek cuts him short. “You’re welcome. It wasn’t a big deal. I had an extra pair that I don’t use.” He lies easily. He had taken off the tag and roughed them up in some dirt for a little before he put them in the flower patch, feeling too awkward about giving the impression of buying Stiles a brand new pair.

Stiles raises an eyebrow, and huffs out a little silent laugh. “Okay. Well, thanks again.” Derek notices that Stiles looks tired, and a little skinnier than normal. He knows vaguely that the nogitsune mess dealt Stiles a pretty heavy hand, even if they didn’t communicate much during it. He also knows he’s lying to himself. That the nogitsune possessing Stiles scared him more than he understands and knows how to express. He wishes he could’ve been there, could’ve stopped it in some way. He knows how it is, to feel used, to be taken over like that. Except Stiles had no choice.

Derek had every choice, and he blew it for a twirl of blonde hair.

Stiles clears his throat.

“Mind if I come in for a little bit and use your bathroom? I have to head back all the way across town later, and there’s gonna be a lot of traffic.”

“Sure,” Derek side steps to let Stiles in, who does a little jog to the bathroom and throws a quick thanks in Derek’s direction.

When he comes back, he’s frowning at his phone. Derek tries not to let curiosity get the best of him and goes back to putting up his groceries. Stiles slips his phone back into his pocket and settles to lean over the counter.

“Do you need any help?”

“I’m nearly through,” he says, closing the cheese drawer of the fridge. He glances over his shoulder a few times to see Stiles spacing out, his fingers tapping on the metal of the table.

“Are you okay?” Derek decides after a moment that it’s safe to ask that, but Stiles still looks surprised anyway.

“Uh, yeah. I guess, as okay as I can be.”

Derek nods and Stiles checks his phone again, biting his bottom lip and absently glancing at the door.

“Do you need to get going?” Derek asks, picking up the plastic bags loitering around the counter.

“I should.” Derek can hear the hesitance in his voice.

“But you don’t want to,” Derek finishes for him, straightening and crosses his arms. “Why is that?”

Stiles focuses on folding the receipt that has fallen out of a bag with his hands. He makes neat little rectangles with it and Derek watches patiently.

“I’ve been on watch,” Stiles says in that way that sounds like he wants to make a joke, but the punch line never comes. He finally looks up with a humorless smile on his lips.

Derek frowns. “What, like Scott and your dad are-”

“-Taking turns watching me. They haven’t let me out of their sight. Not since the funeral,” his voice goes tight and he looks away again. “I appreciated it at first, you know. But now, it makes me feel…” Broken. Weak. Helpless. Derek gets it.

“They think I’m going to do something stupid,” Stiles says quietly.

Derek exhales through his nose and leans forward on the counter until their arms are almost touching. “Well, are you?”

“No,” Stiles shoots out a little too loud and antsily. There’s the faintest uptick of his heart Derek would’ve missed if he wasn’t looking for it.

Stiles deflates. “I don’t know.”

Derek knows that look. He knows that guilt, and lives it every day. Stiles won’t do anything stupid to himself, because the guilt is already hurting him enough. Scott and his dad don’t know that yet, but they will.

“Okay. Feel free to stay longer, if you want to. I’m just going to cook and maybe run errands,” he offers and walks back to the fridge. He frowns after assessing there isn’t anything in it he really wants to eat or cook for himself, so he dials his favorite Indian restaurant for pick up. He flicks his glance over back at Stiles, who snorts and looks amused. He also looks grateful being able to stay, and swings his legs over the stool. He heads for the couch. Derek shrugs and half smiles at him. It’s something.

“Just stay here. I’m gonna pick up the food and run to the bank.” Stiles nods and settles further into the musty couch.

 

When Derek comes back with bags of food, Stiles is dozing on the couch. He steps into the kitchen, unloads the food onto real plates, and shoots Scott a quick text to let him know Stiles is safe. He sends Scott a second text to tell him to give him some space, just for a while.

When Laura and him left Beacon Hills, they slept in her tiny four door most of the way to New York. They took turns sleeping in the back or buying cheap motels with single beds so they could drift off with their backs touching. The car smelled liked them and so did the apartment that was the size of a broom closet. She was always touching, reassuring herself that he was there and that he was alive with that dazed, worried look in her eyes. He still smelled her, even weeks after she died. He knows Scott is doing the same thing. He’s keeping inventory of Stiles, as his beta and his best friend.

Derek nudges Stiles awake with his foot and plops down a plate of chicken korma and a couple slices of naan. Stiles startles awake, a look of panic briefly blurring his eyes. He looks up at Derek for a few seconds and wipes sleep away, relaxing after a while.

“There’s a lot of extra, so dig in.” Derek motions to the plates and Stiles quirks an eyebrow, but doesn’t complain.

Derek finds himself staring at Stiles’ hands as they eat. The way his hands rip into the bread reminds him of the those long fingers in the mismatched gloves ripping out weeds and earth. Derek swallows and looks away.

“So, how did that collect seance call to your mom go. Anything important or life threatening we should know?”

Derek shakes his head, taking a moment to chew on some potatoes. “Just stuff about our family and Beacon,” he gives. Stiles narrows his eyes and Derek levelly stares back. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Stiles, because he does. It’s just that those memories, that conversation is his. It belongs to him and he doesn’t have a lot he owns anymore. Stiles seems to understand that and shrugs, ripping into his naan again.

“Are you going to start again?” Derek says after a while. Stiles gives him a quizzical look, not understanding.

“Planting flowers," Derek clarifies.

Stiles exhales and shakes his head decisively. “Nah. Just doesn’t seem like the right time to be planting stupid flowers. It doesn’t accomplish anything.”

Derek frowns. “Why did you do it before? Does it need to have a point?”

Stiles puts his plate down and tilts his head in confusion. “I did it when… I missed my mom. When I needed, I don’t know, to clear my head.” Derek remembers the way the lines of tension in Stiles’ shoulders seemed to seep into the ground.

“Okay, then you should pick it up again.”

“I can’t,” Stiles says, voice flat. The tone makes Derek set his plate down. He glances up to Stiles looking weary.

“Why not?” Derek challenges.

“Because I can’t," it comes out sounding like a question. " I did it for my mom but I can’t do that. I can’t do that when it’s selfish for me to miss her. After what I did? To all those people? And Allison,” Stiles voice shakes and Derek knows he’s pushed too hard. The food is forgotten and sours in his stomach. They stare at each other for a long while and Derek breaks his gaze first. Stiles scrambles up and away from Derek, long legs taking him halfway to the door.

“I should go back. Dad and Scott are probably worried.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Derek starts to stand, but Stiles’ voice stops him.

“It’s been fun. Thanks for the food and the terrible advice and those fucking gloves, which by the way I know you just recently bought. I don’t know what you want from me, but it’s not going to be that. I’m done,” Stiles ladles out, sarcastic and defensive. And then turns on his heel and leaves through the open metal door. He probably would’ve slammed it if he could.

Derek throws out the food, not hungry anymore.

+|+

 

He doesn’t see Stiles for a long time after that. Always flanked by Scott or Lydia, both who greet him with trepidation. Stiles doesn't even acknowledge his presence during those encounters. So he doesn’t expect for Stiles to show up around the corner of his loft.

 

Derek smells Stiles before he sees him. He's taking out the trash when he catches his scent and rounds the corner to the alleyway in between his building and the abandoned one next door.

Stiles is with a few people Derek doesn't recognize. The girl has on a long, blue wig and she's holding up Stiles on her tiny frame. His arm is slung around her shoulder and the other is braced against the wall. His head is tucked into the crook of her neck and she looks flushed.

The loft is only a few blocks away from the clubs and the gay district, but it's still a long ways to walk. Something clenches in his throat as he approaches them. The girl is soothing a hand down Stiles' back and she's murmuring something too quiet for Derek to pick up. A boy, who is wearing the tightest pair of white pants Derek has ever seen, spots him first, and narrows his eyes in suspicion.

"Stiles," Derek says, coming up beside him and the girl. The two shoot each other looks, communicating with their eyes for a moment as Derek slips an arm around Stiles' tapered waist to take the weight off of the girl. They both relax a little, after giving him a quick glance over, deciding he's harmless in his sweatpants and sleeping shirt.

"What happened to him?" Derek asks, grunting when Stiles tips off the wall, moaning.

"You a narc?" The boy asks with a sneer. Derek rolls his eyes and snorts.

"No, but his dad is the Sheriff of Beacon Hills."

The boy curses, shoving the girl in an agitated way. "Shit, Caitlin. I told you Honey Eyes wouldn't be able to handle it. And now we're screwed if this otter over here snitches on us," his whiny voice is grating on Derek's nerves already.

Stiles groans again and dry heaves with his head against the wall. Nothing comes out, so he leans back against Derek again, and murmurs his name. His eyes are glossed over, unseeing and Derek can smell the chemical sweetness from his breath. There's also bright pink lipstick smeared around Stiles' lips and neck.

"What'd you give him?" Derek's voice drops dangerously low, which makes the boy scoot closer to the girl, away from Derek. He's not sure which part- the lipstick or the drugs- is making him more angry.

"I gave him what I had. Half an E," Caitlin stutters out, rubbing her arm. "He had like two drinks too."

Caitlin's eyes are still dilated and he can smell the same chemical sweetness from her breath. "Get out of here. I'll take care of him from here."

"How do I know-," Caitlin starts but Derek's expression cuts her off, eyes going stony from her implication.

"I've known him for a while now. A lot better than you two. I'm going to call his dad and then take him to my loft right over there. He's going to be in a lot of trouble in the morning and if you don't want the same thing to happen to you, I suggest you leave. Now." Caitlin swallows and nods vigorously, and pulls her friend away. The stumble down the alleyway into the parking lot and Derek sighs, readjusting Stiles' weight against him.

He's gone limp, but he's still breathing. There's no way they're walking back to the apartment, so Derek decides to lift him into a bridal carry, since he'd rather not have Stiles possibly puke down his back if he fireman carried him. Stiles is surprisingly heavy for someone so thin, so the move to the apartment goes slower than he'd like. He knows they must look ridiculous from the way his neighbor eyes him as he passes her in the lobby.

Stiles' forehead has broken out into a sheen of sweat by the time Derek has gotten the door open. He dumps Stiles on the couch and feels his forehead with the back of his hand. It's warm, and Stiles is shivering now. He slips Stiles' phone from his pocket, and takes a moment to examine the fingerprints on the screen. After a few tries, he gets the phone unlocked and reads through Stiles' texts to his dad to get his cover story straight.

Stiles has already told him he's staying with Scott for the night, so he puts the phone down on the table and fetches a cool wet cloth for Stiles' head.

He texts Scott from his own phone, letting him know what's happening and Scott calls almost immediately.

"Is he okay? I thought he said he was with Caitlin tonight." Scott sounds worried.

"Well, he was. But he's wasted and the girl said he took half a pill. She was lying though, so it was probably a lot more than that," Derek says, checking over his shoulder to see if Stiles has stirred. He hasn't and Derek sighs.

"Shit. Should I come and get him?"

"I don't know, Scott. He's your friend. I don't mind him staying here if it's too late for you to go out, and I don't know how happy your mom would be to see him like this."

Scott is quiet for a moment and then exhales. "Yeah, you're probably right. I don't want him to get into more trouble, and his dad is gonna flip. I'll call him in the morning, but just take care of him until then, okay?"

"Alright," Derek says, placing the cloth on Stiles' head.

"Hey, Derek. Thanks a lot for doing this. I really appreciate it," Scott says sincerely.

"No problem. Night, Scott."

"Night."

+|+

Stiles wakes up after the second cold cloth and groans. Derek lifts up the waste basket he's brought over and shoves it into Stiles' chest none too gently.

"Here, stupid," Derek says severely.

Stiles sits up and heaves into the basket, making Derek wince at the noise and the strong smell of bile.

"How am I here?" Stiles moans, and throws up again.

"Your friends were walking by my loft, so I took you off their hands." Stiles groans and empties his stomach. Derek takes the waste basket away after he's stopped and drifted off back into a stupor and changes the bag out, holding his breath the entire time.

Stiles doesn’t wake up again until 5 in the morning and downs the entire cup of water Derek has laid out next to him. He seems a little better and sits up, rubbing at his face.

"Did you tell my dad?" his voice is clear, sober and Derek doesn’t smell the chemicals anymore.

"No, I told Scott."

"That's even worse," Stiles says, slumping.

"Worse? You know what's worse? Is that you're using drugs to cope."

"It was a rave and it was one pill," Stiles rolls his eyes petulantly.

"You're an idiot. This isn't how you should be dealing with your emotions." Stiles laughs at that, bellowing out loud and mirthless.

"Oh, yeah? You're going to give out advice now, mister healthy feelings? Fuck you." Stiles glares, and struggles to stand up, but his equilibrium is still off, so Derek pushes him back down, roughly. He leans down to get in his face, shirt fisted in his hands.

"I may not be fine either or good with my emotions, but at least I admit it. I haven't been okay for a long time, but I'm dealing. In healthier ways and I'd like to think I'm getting a little better," Derek says, practically a hiss.

"Fuck you," Stiles grits out. His eyes are steely, and he shoves Derek away. "I planned on dancing with my non-supernatural friends tonight. Dancing. Not drugs. I just wanted to feel like a normal teenager and when she offered, I decided 'why the fuck not?' I wanted to. I wanted to make bad decisions. I wanted to feel good. I wanted it to be me who chose all this and have it not linked to the fact that I was possessed by a fucking Japanese demon fox. My bad decisions. Mine," Stiles digs his own fingers into his own chest, then clenches them shut. He looks like a caged animal. Like he wants to punch Derek straight in the jaw, and Derek kind of wants him to.

 

Instead, Stiles surges up and kisses him taking him by surprise, forceful and skilled. He licks his way into Derek's mouth and Derek loses himself in it. He still tastes like bile, but underneath that, it's the intoxicating tinge of Stiles and he wants it. God, he misses touch and his hands slides up the sides of Stiles' waist and around to the lines of his spine.

Stiles pulls back, eyes dilated and a smirk on his lips. There's something challenging and dangerous that has hints of the nogitsune in its curve.

Derek's stomach drops when he remembers Stiles' words. This is a game to Stiles. He wants a bad decisions to hurt himself and Derek and him are a very bad idea. They could never work and he knows that, but Derek wants. He wants it for real. But he can't let himself have it. Not if it's not real. Not like this. He turns around and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, heart pounding.

 

When he turns backs, Stiles' expression has gone blank again, affirming that it was just a dare he gave himself. Like he said: bad decisions. Derek clenches his fist until he can feel his blunt, human nails digging into the palm, hard enough to draw blood.

"I'm not going to be one of those bad decisions, Stiles. So go home."

Stiles looks small, and vulnerable. He looks lost. But Derek's not going to let himself be that; a hurdle for someone else anymore, not even Stiles.

He still hasn't moved, so Derek does first. He takes two steps up the spiral staircase to the empty gym room he has set up there and zooms straight towards the punching bag. He rips his fist through so hard that it tears away from the chain and thumps heavily on the ground. Derek is breathing hard and he can hear Stiles shuffling around downstairs, until his footsteps fade away.

+|+

There is a certain shocking moment when Derek realizes that Stiles has somehow made it into the top 3 most important people in his life. He's not sure when it happened or if it was a gradual move, slowly inching towards him at glacial speed. Laura had always told him things came differently to him, when he was struggling with algebra. A few years later, it all made sense to him at a time he didn't need it.

And it's the same for Stiles. After Laura died, Scott moved straight to the top. Newly bitten, he needed help understanding his powers. It was a nice, convenient solution for not thinking about Laura and how very dead she was. Scott was young and inexperienced. A handful and a half, with an annoying best friend always hovering in Scott's peripheral like his personal bodyguard.

So Scott had been at the top for a long time. Stiles had been like a ghost limb to Scott, like fine print. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac filled up the other spots when he was an alpha, but he still couldn't protect them.

Derek begrudgingly chose Stiles after getting shot by Kate as an extension of Scott. He was valuable for his quick thinking and same moral ambiguity as Derek, which was a good thing in most situations.

Derek knows he's not on anyone's top three list. Maybe Scott's top 8. He's not even on his own list, but he's trying to change that. He knows his mom and Laura would want him to make the effort.

It's a new feeling, trying not to hate himself. To let himself heal his wounds and try and forgive himself for the past. He'd messed it up already with Cora, who couldn't handle him until he'd truly forgiven himself.

They skype sometimes, on and off and it's nice to know she's safe and has her own life. It's better she's far away so he has no chance of ruining it for her either.

He's still bitter about that night. The memory of Stiles' lips and his skin burning under Derek's hands still taunt him, but he can't make himself fix the fragile state of their, whatever they are. Are they friends? Derek's not so sure that's a word he can use for someone like Stiles.

Still, he finds himself running past Stiles' patch in the preserve. The gloves are still there where he left them, looking pristine and unused. He guesses Stiles wouldn't want to have anything to do with them.

 

+|+

After another week of being ignored, Derek gets up at six in the morning, before the depot store is even open. He buys a few crates of flowers, ones that are the leftovers. They’re all wilting and pathetic, but it’s the best he can do. He swings up by the Stlinskis, and the cruiser is still parked in the driveway.

The Sheriff opens the door before he can even knock, a cup of coffee in his hand. “Come on in, son.”

Derek follows, stiffly and unsure why he’s driven here, but then he’s sitting when the Sheriff gestures for him to.

“Just got off duty. How do you take your joe? Awfully early to function without it,” he says over his shoulder, reaching for a mug.

“Black is fine.”

The sheriff slides the mug over and collapses onto his seat, wincing from an old injury, most likely.

“How’s Stiles?” Derek asks, fingering the rim of the cup. He takes a sip.

“Still grounded and still upstairs, asleep.” The Sheriff wipes his hand over his face. He looks tired, but still offers Derek a friendly, but wan smile. “It’s been hard on him. It’s been hard on Scott. And I don’t know how to tell him it gets better when he just buried his friend.” Derek doesn’t say anything, and the Sheriff doesn’t look finished.

He grunts, leaning back in his chair and grabs his cup. His wedding ring clinks against the mug. “You know, as a parent, I feel like I’m failing him. I know it’s hard on him, but I never ever expected him to turn to drugs to get through it. And drinking underage? That worries me,” he sips at his coffee and smacks his lips. “Alcoholism runs on my side, so I always worry. And when he still feels like he can’t...share things with me. It’s tough. It’s been one hell of a year,” he finishes.

Derek digests the words for a few minutes. He wants to say that not all grief can be made into words, can be talked about. He didn’t talk for months after the fire. The guilt made his tongue feel like ash, ready to flake off and crumble at any sound.

“I don't think he did drugs to get through it. He just wanted to feel normal. And he’s not going to do it again. He wouldn’t do that to you,” Derek says softly.

The Sheriff nods. “I don’t think he will either. At least I hope not.”

“When I…,” Derek swallows. “When the fire happened, my sister was the one to help me through it. We moved to New York for a while, in this small little apartment. I was a mess. I wouldn’t eat, I wouldn’t sleep, I wouldn’t do anything. I was wasting away, but Laura shook me out of it. She said I owed it to her to keep living. I was the only thing she had left, and she was partially right. I’m starting to learn that I need to keep living for myself, too.”

The Sheriff gives him a look of sympathy and leans forward, putting a gentle hand on Derek’s.

“I hated hearing these words after Claudia died, but I am truly sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

Derek finishes up his coffee before he continues, enjoying the familiar air between them. “Laura pushed me to train and run. It made me feel better. It helped me focus. It was a smart move and was a good way to cope.”

“So you want to turn my son into a cage fighter?” the Sheriff deadpans over his mug.

Derek smiles, “No, he has a way of coping already. I didn’t really understand it at first but,” he furrows his brows together. “That’s what it is. He guerilla gardens.” The Sheriff eyes go wide with surprise. They flicker with memories, going soft and a little distant, a little hopeful.

“Claudia used to love gardening."

Derek nods. “Stiles told me. I saw him one day in the forest, planting. It seemed to calm him. Anchor him. I’d like to get him started again.”

The Sheriff eyes him for a long while. “I don’t know you very well, but Scott trusts you and you’ve saved them a number of times. If you think that this will help… He'll fight you tooth and nail the whole way through. He won't give up either," the Sheriff says sternly, but his expression indicates his fondness anyway.

"I believe it. But that's the point, I think."

The Sheriff nods and pushes back in his chair to stand. He extends a hand to Derek, looking grateful and relieved. "I'll help you as much as I can. He's my son and I just want to get him through this, in any way that's possible."

Derek takes it, shaking it firmly. "Yes, sir."

There's shuffling upstairs and the sound of a faucet or shower running. The Sheriff grins. "I was gonna wait till tomorrow, but looks like you'll get started a lot faster than you probably thought. Be right back."

The Sheriff heads up the stairs and returns with a firm hand on Stiles's shoulder. From the way Stiles is wincing, it's almost like the Sheriff has him by the ear.

"You're going to go with Derek to the preserve today and for however long I decide."

"Dad, come on. This isn't fair!" Stiles shouts.

"Fair? You want fair, kid? I could be throwing my own son in the slammer right now for ingesting narcotics with a bunch of college students. I owe Derek and he has a plan for you and I approved it."

Stiles snorts, crossing his arms and slumps over in teenage defense. "I don't think you've met Derek, dad. His plans never work," he says glaring straight at Derek.

Derek clenches his jaw, but keeps his eyes on the Sheriff. He can see Stiles smirking at him, jeering from his periphery. It feels like they've stepped back a year in time. Back to when Stiles was still trying to be as spiteful as he could.

"We'll be back for dinner time. Thank you, Sheriff."

Derek heads to the door and the Sheriff pushes Stiles out rough enough that he tumbles into Derek's shoulder.

+|+

Derek drives them straight to the flower patch, gloves still resting, in mocking. Stiles rolls his eyes, looking bored.

"Wow, I'm so surprised," Stiles says flatly.

"What, you wanted me to take you to Disneyland instead?" Derek says and Stiles snorts, rolling his eyes again.

"It'd be a lot better than here. I'm not touching those stupid flowers."

Derek sighs, shutting off his engine. He turns to look at Stiles, who has taken to looking out the passenger window.

"You keep calling them that. 'Stupid'. But they seemed pretty important to you before. Why can't they still be?"

Stiles doesn't answer and Derek sighs again, sitting in the silence. He knows it's useless to force Stiles out, but he also knows he won't run. They're too far into the forest for that and Derek is a lot faster and stronger.

So they sit there, Stiles refusing to look at him, exuding an aura of coldness. They sit there until Derek's ass is numb and the sun starts to sink beyond the treelines. If it's one thing Derek has, it's time. He starts up the car and drives Stiles back home. Stiles gets out of the car before he can even park. The Sheriff greets him, looking sympathetic and claps a hand on Stiles' shoulder when he brushes past.

He comes up beside the car and Derek rolls the window down.

"Same time tomorrow? He's not doing anything but home, school, and your plan for a while."

"Yeah, same time tomorrow."

+|+

It goes on like that for three days, until Stiles decides to ditch when the Sheriff has work the same time as the pick up. Stiles has blocked his number, so he tries Scott and then Lydia.

Lydia replies with a long sigh. "He's with me. I borrowed him for the day, so your flowers can wait."

"Lydia, his dad said he's grounded. I'm supposed to be-"

"I'm going to stop you there. Why are you doing this, Derek? It's not like everyone processes guilt and death the same way." He flinches.

"I'm going to give you advice. If you want him to do whatever it is you plan, it's not going to work the way you want it. Stiles is a man of subtlety. You have to let him think that his ideas are his own, not ones you want to make him do. He doesn't do well with authority. I’ve got to go now. He’s coming back from the bathroom.” She hangs up on him.

 

+|+

He has a plan. At least he thinks he does. When plans come to Derek, they don't normally work out the way he wants them to.

Instead of idling in the car with Stiles ignoring him, he opens his own door and pops open the trunk. He lifts out the crates of dying flowers and heads over to the patch.

The peonies are still doing well, in full blossom, sitting in a perfect ray of sunlight. The earth here is damp and cool and when Derek kneels down, his knee immediately gets soaked from the soil. He doesn't mind it, though.

He doesn't know the first thing about planting anything, or keeping things alive, really. These little flowers Stiles set into the ground months ago are still thriving, even sprouting up more than he'd originally planted. It's incredible.

 

He looks up, spying on the way Stiles' face is slack with indifference. It makes him feel inexplicably sad, nostalgic even. He used to look at himself in the mirror and see the same, blank and hollowed look. He wonders if Scott looks like this too; if he's just missed it in their short conversations. Derek isn't good at this. He isn't good at fixing things or helping people the way he wants to.

Derek sinks his fingertips into the soil, feeling the wriggle of an earthworm and the pull of the fragile root system breaking off on his nails. He digs deeper, until his whole hand disappears and then he scoops up. Two peonies come up with it. He glances up, where Stiles is looking back out the passenger window, not paying him any attention.

So Derek keeps doing it. He keeps digging up with his human hands first, then with his claws, shredding all of Stiles' hard work until he hears the satisfying click of the car door and Stiles' shouting.

"Hey hey hey- what the fuck? What the hell are you doing to those?" Stiles quick steps towards him in three long strides.

Derek looks up. He can see the buzz of fiery anger in Stiles' eyes. He can see a vein in his jaw protruding from clenching his teeth too hard. That's more like it.

Derek stands up, brushing the dirt off of his jeans with his dirty hands, ending with his hands on his hips. "I thought you said you didn't care."

Stiles' eyes narrow. "Is this what this is? You're going to rip out all of my flowers to see if I feel anything anymore? Well guess what? I do. That's the fucking problem!"

Stiles pushes past Derek, and kneels down, trying to salvage the destroyed petals and roots. He mutters, "perfect, fucking perfect" over and over again. His hands are shaking when he stands up, a perfect storm of furious.

"Fuck you," Stiles grits through his teeth. "Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you! Fuck this whole stupid idea. Fuck!" He stomps through the ruined flowers and gives Derek's pathetic crate of flowers a solid kick, sending them flying towards a tree.

"FUCK THIS WHOLE TOWN," he roars and comes stalking towards Derek with speed. He shoves him twice, hard. Hard enough to make Derek stumble backwards.

And then it's over. He's turning his heel and marching away. But Derek's already made that mistake once, so he stops Stiles with a hand on his arm. Stiles twists out of his grip, mouth open in disbelief.

"Look, this might've been a mistake. Let me drive you home. It's a far walk from here and I told your dad you'd be back by dinner time," Derek says calm and quiet.

 

"The thing is, I'd rather go through chinese water torture than spend another second with you. So thanks, but no thanks. I'm going to call Scott and make him pick me up so go fuck yourself. And if I get lost or I lose cell reception, anything- literally anything - is better than you."

 

Derek laughs at that, because it is almost the exact same thing he'd said to his parents once during a family vacation after an argument he can't even remember. He'd been feeling middle child syndrome pretty badly at that time, and spiteful for it.

Stiles stares at him, mouth open and eyes squinted like he can't believe what's happening, yet again.

"Is it funny, Derek? Cause I didn't write that one into my standup for laughs." Stiles turns back around and stalks away, his back a long line of anger.

Derek lets him go. He allows him five more paces, then starts following him. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and watches as Stiles tries to zip away from him, his faded red hoodie a sore thumb in the mostly grey, brown, and green forest.

He follows him, coolly. Stiles jerks his head over his shoulder to scowl at him.

“Don’t fucking follow me.”

He walks ten more steps and Derek does too, leisurely steps. Stiles lets out a frustrated snarl and trips over a branch. He scrambles back on his feet and whirls around.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I am not kidding you. I’m going to let you walk it off until you hit that cliff about 500 yards from here, then take you home,” Derek states simply.

Stiles’ fists are at his sides, clenched tightly, head tilted away. He knows he’s lost a battle, that this is Derek’s territory and Derek’s rules.

So he does what Derek has wanted him to since the night of the kiss. He lunges at Derek, fists first. He throws his whole weight into it, like he’s throwing a high speed pitch. Derek dodges, but doesn’t anticipate Stiles tackling him into the dirt and leaves. Derek’s head smacks hard on the ground and he’s dizzy for a moment. Stiles face is twisted in a rage. Derek can feel the anger pulsing, trembling beneath the skin that he’s touching. Proof that he’s alive. This is the way Derek can get through to Stiles. He’s never been good at words, saying things he means. But touch and action are better.

Stiles tries to land another punch, but Derek’s hand catches his forearm. Derek tries pushing him off, sending Stiles tumbling back until they're rolling off through some tall brush. Stiles yells in frustration and Derek locks his legs around Stiles' ankles.

“Do you feel better yet?” Derek grits out.

Stiles sinks his fist into the ground next to Derek’s head, spraying dirt onto Derek’s face. Then his face slacks, tension leaks out. He gets up, Derek releasing him and slowly turns away from Derek. His head hangs down. Derek stands, wiping the grime from his face on the sleeve of his shirt.

 

Derek shakes his head and moves closer to Stiles, who looks like he's going to dart at any moment. He places a hand on Stiles' shoulder, just barely resting there to feel the tension between his fingers. Derek collects the words in his mind.

"Stiles, I'm sorry about your flowers."

Stiles starts to take a step away, but Derek keeps going. "And I'm sorry about your mom. And I'm sorry about the last two months of your life. I’m sorry about Allison. I'm sorry for getting Scott into this too. I'm sorry, and I wish there was something that could change all of that, but there isn't," Derek says it steadily, almost whispering the words in the open forest. Derek is surprised at the ease with which he says it. And it's the truth. Stiles' expression flickers and he pulls away from Derek, but looks a lot less angry.

Stiles jerks his focus away from Derek and stalks back to the car.

"Just take me home."

 

+|+  
When they arrive at the house, Derek parks the car and Stiles stays inside, gripping the hem of his ratty hoodie. Stiles makes a disgruntled sound through his nose and Derek waits.

"I don't blame you,” Stiles voice is low. He says it through teeth, like he’s forcing it.

"What?"

"You apologized for Scott. And I mean, you destroyed my flowers--because you’re a fucking tool, I don’t know. I don’t-- blame you for anything else."

Derek's surprised and it must show on his face because Stiles snorts.

"How could you have stopped Peter in time? There was no way-- you couldn’t stop that. Scott doesn't blame you either," he exhales, running a hand through his spikes.

Derek swallows, feeling the back of his neck flush. He still had his worries, his doubts about being in Scott's pack when he didn't fit in. When Scott used to resent him so much. it feels nice knowing that maybe they're getting to the point Derek wants to be at. Brothers.

"But he used to."

"No, he didn't," Stiles rolls his eyes. "He resented you because you were a huge asshole. You hid things from us instead of just explaining things from the get go. Which, why? That didn’t accomplish anything. Plus you were a giant creep. You still kind of are," Stiles says, but there's a hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth.

“Thanks, I think,” Derek says, his eyebrows furrowing together.

“I don’t _blame_ you for telling my dad about…” he says, pained. “What I did the other night? It was… it was my fault. I was just pissed I got caught, or whatever.”

Derek knows that’s not the full feeling. Stiles is more upset with him for seeing how self destructive he’s getting, but he doesn’t say that. He just nods.

"I can't-- can’t do this. Not every day,” he looks at Derek straight on, determined. He looks tired, and still a lot pissed.

"Okay," Derek nods, agreeing that it probably wasn't good for either of them to be doing this so often. Not when it has only been a few hours and he feels emotionally drained. “That’s fair. How about three times a week?”

Stiles nods curtly, looking at him. He has a strange expression on his face, one that Derek has never seen directed at him.

“Yeah, okay. That’s better.”

“See you Thursday?”

Stiles shrugs and nods. He opens the door and hops down.

 

+|+

Cora skypes him as soon as he gets home. She’s wearing a tank top over her bikini and looks like she’s been out on the beach all day. Derek scowls in jealousy since the cold has a few more months before it lifts in Beacon and he’s exhausted from the cold.

“Whoah, grumpy. What happened?” Cora says, into the camera, sipping on her beer.

“A lot has happened.” She rolls her eyes.

“I told you, you should’ve just stayed in Argentina with me.” He had certainly thought about it. They argued the entire trip, weighing options. Family was important, but Derek had to deal with Peter. There was Scott in Beacon Hills, who was still a young alpha. There was Cora, who’d found a secure, welcoming pack in Argentina to spend her time with. She didn't need him and he would only drag her down.

“Beacon is a cesspool,” Cora had said. But Beacon is his home. It was for a lot longer than it was for Cora. Even when Laura and him stayed in New York, it just felt like they were waiting to go back. Like the apartment, his job and Laura’s continued education were all just temporary.

“What happened this time?” she says, eyebrows drawn together, her drink forgotten. He talks about the nogitsune mess. One of the twins dying, which Cora lifts her chin defiantly at. Allison. Stiles and Scott and how they’re dealing with it.

“Okay, so why does it sound like you’re invested with this? You have your own issues to deal with.” He sighs, because she isn’t wrong.

“They’re just kids, Cora.”

“So? You don’t owe them anything.”

“I know. I never said that I did.”

Her face goes stony, drawn back into herself. He hates that look. It’s the same one she gave him when he said he couldn’t stay with her. “I was just a kid. I thought you were dead and I deserve those years back with you.”

He goes quiet, his throat dry. “I wish I could…”

“You wish you could? You can! But you made your choice. You’re choosing them,” he can hear and not see the way her voice chokes off. He knows she’s crying and he hates that he’s still causing her pain, even thousands of miles away.

“I feel like I need to be here. I need… I just need to fix these kids so they don’t make the same mistakes I did. So they know how to deal with losing people they love.”

“I never learned ‘how to deal’,” she says quietly. “You weren’t there for me. And you still aren’t.” She hangs up before he can say anything back. He feels hollowed out, or maybe heavy. Somewhere in between. Is this how it was for Laura? How could she have carried his grief along with her own and juggle all the responsibilities of being a new Alpha?

He should call her back. But there’s still dirt on his face and down his neck and he’s just tired. He’ll deal with it soon, just not now.

He showers and drags himself to bed.

+|+

 

[_columbine_](http://mkalty.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/Dark+blue+purple+Columbine+flower+with+buds+pictures.png); anxiety

Stiles is already waiting outside with a bucket of tools and a crate of purple flowers that hang down like bells. Cora would’ve called them dresses for fairies when she was little.

“Hi,” Stiles says, tentative. Derek tries to keep a stoic face, maybe going slightly smug instead of showing how astonished he is by the change in events. It works, because Stiles rolls his eyes, agitated already.

“I’m not saying you’re right. You just ruined my patch for my mom.” Derek smirks, a real one and gives a smooth shrug of his shoulders.

“Plus, those flowers you got were ugly as hell and would’ve died in the forest.” Stiles pops open the trunk, setting the crate down first, then haphazardly tosses in the tools. It makes a loud clank, loud enough to make Derek wince. Stiles smiles at him innocently, shuts the door, and climbs in.

The drive to the patch is a lot less tense than normal. Stiles drums on his legs instead of the long, quiet stillness he had begun to master in Derek’s presence in the last few days.

Derek parks in his usual spot and Stiles gets out first, eager to get started. Derek smiles privately to himself as Stiles gets out his things. He heads to the tree that Stiles kicked the flowers towards and leans on it. Stiles sets his crate down, then stands up, hands on his hips and a frown on his lips. He walks around the patch in a slow circle, assessing the damage like he’s solving a murder scene. Eventually he shrugs, face relaxing. He crouches down to pick up the gloves discarded under a pile of peonies.

Derek holds his breath when Stiles slides them on. They fit him nicely, and the dark brown of the back of the gloves contrasts with his pale skin. Stiles flexes his fingers a few times to break them in. Satisfied, he moves to his bucket of tools, pausing before just dumping out the content. He quickly takes clumps of dirt and peonies, shaking them out so the loose dirt falls out, then tosses the rest into the bucket. Derek watches quietly as Stiles works, and it’s almost like nostalgia.

“Hey, make yourself useful and go buy me a bag of potting soil,” Stiles says bossily.

Derek quirks an eyebrow. “Do you have money?”

Stiles looks up to glare at him. “You’re paying for it. I’m grounded, which means I can’t even cut yards part time for cash. This was your idea too, so you’re going to fund it. Think of it as a philanthropic donation,” Stiles’ mouth twists in annoyance.

Derek exhales through his nose, pushing off the tree with his shoulder. “Fine. I’ll buy it. Don’t run off again,” he says.

Stiles makes a complicated expression that half says, ‘Duh’ and ‘You’re an asshole and I’m an angel’ all in one, then goes back to clearing the damage. Derek snorts and pulls his keys out.

 

It’s a thirty minute trip from the forest into town and back so Derek decides to get them `breakfast to go as well. Maybe as a reward to Stiles for making some progress. By the time he gets back, Stiles has finished clearing the patch and has smoothed out the earth with a tool that looks like a handheld rake. Derek carries the bag of potting soil in the pit of his arm, the food and coffee in his hands. Stiles doesn’t bother looking up until Derek plops the bag down next to him.

“Thanks,” Stiles says absently.

“I got us breakfast too. Ham and egg bagel sandwiches and coffee.” Stiles makes a face, but takes the sandwich without complaining anyway. “Do you need creamer?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I drink mine black.” Derek hums. He’d taken Stiles for a more creamer and sugar than coffee sort of guy, but Stiles has surprised him plenty of times before.

Derek opens the trunk so they can sit without worrying about the damp soil soaking into their pants. He sits first, Stiles lumbering after. Stiles hesitates, eying the empty space next to Derek, but decides on leaning against the tail light instead. It sort of stings, but Derek ignores it.

They eat in silence. Stiles seems to inhale his sandwich and heads back to work on the patch.

Derek watches as Stiles uses a tool with a round open hole at the end. He digs it in and twists up and out and it's left with a perfectly cylindrical hole, deep enough to plant the flowers Stiles has pulled closer to his knees.

"What kind of flowers are they?"

Stiles tenses like he forgot Derek was there for a second. He thumps the cylinder tool against the ground and the soil comes out easily.

"They're Columbines. Sometimes they're called Granny's Bonnets."

They seem like a pretty specific type, and he doesn't remember seeing them at the depot store either. He makes a note to himself to look it up later.

The day goes by quickly and when Derek tells Stiles it’s time to head back, he looks up, surprised. There’s dirt around his wrists, but he seems better, a lot better than yesterday. He quietly puts his tools up, and hides a small yawn from Derek, who grins back at him. They head back into town in an easy silence.

 

+|+

Stiles comes out, slumping and yawning, holding a grease spotted bag.

He tosses it at Derek carelessly when he climbs in. "Found my dad's secret stash of donuts." Derek snorts, smirking and peeks into the bag. There are a few regular glazed donuts and a bearclaw that looks half eaten.

Stiles yawns again in Derek's periphery.

"Are you tired?"

Stiles glances over at him, biting the inside of his bottom lip, twisting it between his teeth. He lets go and sighs loudly.

"Yeah. I didn't sleep last night."

"At all?" Derek frowns. He catches Stiles' eye.

"Maybe 30 minutes? I don't know."

Derek turns his head, contemplating at the steering wheel. He'd had these days. Werewolves don't need sleep as much as humans, but he'd go on binge days without sleeping from the gnawing guilt and his turning thoughts. Laura couldn't get him out of bed to the gym, much less get a decent meal in him sometimes. But she'd sit with him instead, hand on his back. Sometimes she'd read one handedly until he felt like he could talk, and sometimes they'd say nothing and sit in the grief together.

He starts the car up, reverses left out of the driveway. They get to the first stop sign before Stiles notices.

"Uh, Derek? We're going the wrong way."

"Not going to the preserve today."

Stiles tilts his head, eyebrows up. "Then where are you taking me?" Derek rolls his eyes at the suspicion in Stiles' tone.

"Relax. This is a part of the plan."

Stiles huff-laughs. "Oh yeah? You came up with a plan this thorough?"

"I'm taking to you get breakfast and if you're feeling up to it, maybe we can go to the preserve and finish planting."

Stiles gives a little shake of his head, but doesn't say anything else. He just turns to stare out the window.

+|+

He takes them to old family owned brunch place that closes at 2. It's probably a mistake, because he comes in here every day for a coffee or a smoothie for his mornings and the boy there is a little too enthusiastic. He's almost always winking at Derek or giving him free muffins that Derek throws away, more often than not.

"Derek!" he greets in a chipper voice. Derek hides his wince, just nods at him. Stiles rolls his eyes and pushes past him to a booth/table combo that's by the windows.

"Are you getting your usuals today?" The boy, whose name tag reads, 'Cory'. He shakes his head, pointing to Stiles, who is already looking through the menu without him. Cory's smile falters, but he follows Derek to the table like a puppy. Stiles has taken the booth side, forcing Derek to sit in the rigid wooden chair. He glares at Stiles who is smirking behind his menu.

"I'll get a water and a coffee."

"Same over here," Stiles says. There's a slight twitch in Cory's eyebrow, but he flashes a smile at Derek again, winking cheekily. He zips away.

"Jesus," Stiles mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes again.

Derek shrugs and fiddles with the menu, even though he knows what he wants already. The flirting certainly makes him uncomfortable. He knows he's attractive. His body is something he could control, and he works hard on it, but he's never been able to deal with people's attentions without faking the appreciation to hide his discomfort. Stiles clearly sees it though, and lowers the menu in his hands.

"Do you want me to make him go away?"

Derek shakes his head and clears his throat.

“He doesn’t bother me,” Derek says, snatching away the menu from Stiles, who scowls at him.

“And anyway, we're here to talk about you. I’m not going to make you talk about your nightmares, if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah, well great. I don’t want to,” Stiles lips thin. Derek rolls his eyes, feeling like he’s taken ten steps backwards.

“How’s Scott?” That somehow makes Stiles shut down even more. He withdraws, leaning away from Derek and closes in on himself.

“Have you not talked to him?” Derek asks softly.

“Of course I have,” Stiles snaps out, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And it is, because they’re practically inseparable.

“Then how is he doing?” Stiles tongue swipes the bottom of his lip. Derek tries not to stare, and breaks his gaze away when Cory comes back with their drinks. They both order something, distracted by different things and Cory leaves again.

“Scott is-- He’s Scott. He’s handling it a lot better than me, I guess. He misses her. And...yeah.” Stiles winces around the last sentence. Derek understands. It seems impossible that people like Scott and Laura exist. They keep going. They forgive, and their forgiveness feels like a knife plunged between your shoulder blades, constant and persistant.

“I can’t even look at him without seeing what I’ve done.”

“He doesn’t blame you, Stiles.”

Stiles looks up. “He should.” He’s pale, lip trembling. His knuckles have gone white from gripping his own fists, like he’s going to break apart if he doesn’t hold himself together. Derek reaches over, laying a hand on top of Stiles tentatively. Stiles doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to notice. His eyes clouded with guilt and what-ifs. Derek slides his fingers to Stiles’ wrist, pausing to see if it’s okay to continue. Stiles doesn’t budge, so he keeps going. Quietly, his fingers skim over the veins there and the soft skin until they reach his upper forearm. He cups Stiles’ elbow gently, thumb resting on the fast and alive pulse, skittering in that up tempo beat that is Stiles. He knows it’s a strange gesture. That it could be construed as romantic. It’s certainly intimate, but he holds on, sipping at his coffee until it’s nearly empty. Until the color in Stiles’ cheeks return and his shivering ceases.

Cory comes back to set their food down, glancing down at the arrangement of their arms. Derek pulls away, regretfully, just to make more room on the table. Stiles seems to come back and clears his throat.

“Thanks,” he mumbles out loud, to Cory or Derek, he’s not sure. He digs halfheartedly into his eggs.

It took a long time for Derek to separate himself from the cause of his family’s death. Away from the things he couldn't have stopped. Almost 3 years of Laura telling him not to blame himself, for him to understand that he fell in love with a version of a person he believed loved him back. Kate was a monster underneath, holding a matchstick. You couldn’t stop something you didn’t see coming.

They decide not to go to the patch, so Derek drops Stiles off at Scott’s. He cuffs him gently on the head, and tells him to talk to his friend, because it’s important. Scott appears at the front door when Stiles is still stalling in the car.

They hug as soon as Stiles reaches him, Stiles’ head buried in Scott’s neck. His entire body sags into Scott, who runs his hand across Stiles’ back. They whisper things Derek chooses not to hear. He watches as Stiles nods, his profile shadows catching in the high sun.

He drives away from two boys desperately clutching each other and wonders if there will ever be someone who needs him the way they need each other.

+|+

There is one person who needs him that way. Cora.

They haven’t talked since the last disastrous Skype call. He emails her that he hopes she is well and if she wants to come up to visit or if she needs him to come down to Argentina, he will arrange the travel times. She doesn’t reply for a week: 3 sessions of flower planting with Stiles.

It’s a one word reply when he gets one. “Maybe.”

It’s better than nothing.

+|+

Scott tags along the next Saturday, looking curious when they show up at Derek’s.

“I’m guessing you're not going to tell me what’s going on either?” Derek makes eye contact with Stiles, who just shakes his head once. Derek sighs and comes up next to both of them and ushers them outside by the shoulders.

Once they reach the patch, Stiles has mangled the string on his hoodie. He is a ball of nerves and stumbles out of the car. Scott gets out and sniffs around, eyebrows drawing together. He glances furtively at Stiles, looking confused.

“Uh, well, this is it,” Stiles gestures with a flourish of his arms towards the patch.

“Flowers? Are they dangerous?” Derek snorts and Stiles balks, shaking his head.

“No, they’re harmless. Um, I planted them.” Scott’s eyes go wide in surprise, his face relaxing. He smiles and kneels down to examine, hand sweeping gently across the petals.

“Dude, wow. You did all this?” Stiles nods shyly, and stuffs his hands into his pockets, like it isn’t a big deal.

“How come you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.” Scott’s face goes soft. He stands up and pulls Stiles into a side hug.

He asks Stiles all sorts of questions while Stiles plants, ones that Derek has been wondering himself. Midway through the day, they get into a dirt fight, throwing clumps of potting soil until they’re both brown with muck and fertilizer bits, and white teethed grins. Derek narrowly avoids getting hit until Stiles smashes a handful into his hair just as they’re packing up. Some of it gets into his ear and he glares at Stiles who’s laughing breathlessly, forgetting that's he's supposed to be annoyed with Derek. He’s sort of beautiful.

It’s a good day.

Afterwards, they go for Chinese. Scott looks a little tired, worn but still smiles at Derek, bright and genuine throughout dinner.

“Thanks for doing this. I think it’s really good for him,” Scott says, once Stiles is in the bathroom. Scott goes pensive, a light smile on his face. He scans Derek’s face as he thinks. “I think it’s good for you, too.”

Derek isn’t sure how to respond, and Stiles comes back a second later with an armful of fortune cookies.

They all open 4 cookies each. One of Derek’s reads:

_The object of your desire comes closer._

Stiles reads it, laughing and something warm fills Derek’s gut. He wishes it.

And that’s the most dangerous thought of all.


	2. find a place where we can be ourselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lately, Derek finds himself touching Stiles a little more. Because he’s selfish, and far weaker on his determination to not ruin this than he thinks.

Lately, Derek finds himself touching Stiles a little more. Because he’s selfish, and far weaker on his determination to not ruin this than he thinks. They’re just small, tactile things; ranging from light touches on the shoulders, arms, and hands, to reassuring pats. He absolutely doesn’t let himself linger, or trail his fingers over Stiles’ skin. Firm, quick touches only. There’s this ache inside him that Stiles calms and it’s hard to stop. It’s nice to touch in simple ways, grounding himself in the warm, pale skin that peeks through Stiles’ shirts and hoodies. 

He lies to himself that it won’t happen, that his control is extraordinary, but Stiles starts touching back. He leans in and grips Derek’s wrists when they ghost over, a shy smile on his lips. He’s supposed to be helping Stiles, and this is nearly the exact opposite. He still thinks it’s a bad idea, that they’re a bad idea.

He knows Stiles is curious. They don’t talk about the kiss from that night. Derek doesn’t like to relive it and he guesses that Stiles doesn’t think it was his best moment either, but Derek can sometimes feel the fuel of Stiles’ hot stares, the way he leans in to Derek dangerously close when they’re both reading over the plant dictionary Derek bought. 

He reminds himself not to lose himself in the lines of Stiles’ smile and the heat of his skin.

It isn’t working.

 

+|+

 

Stiles bursts into the loft on an off day, looking more alive than he’s been in days. Derek’s not even dressed yet, still in a pair of loose sweatpants and no shirt.

“I got my car privileges back and you should invest in a lock.”

He’s not quite at the same level of energy as Stiles. He scratches lazily at his chest hair that’s growing back in and Stiles’ gaze follows the track of his hand. The air tinges with the sweat-smell of arousal and Derek ignores it the best he can. He pads over to his hamper to pull on a dirty shirt from yesterday, then clears his throat.

“Any reason why you’re here on an off day?” He glances at the wall clock he has by his bed. It’s around five in the morning. Derek was planning on sleeping in and maybe going for a run later. He brushes past Stiles to get a start on coffee.

“I have somewhere I need to go for planting.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. Stiles hops onto the barstool and quicks out a staccato beat on the metal counter.

“I was thinking about what you said a few weeks ago. Bout how I thought the plants were stupid and how I thought they were pointless, etcetera.”

Derek makes a small noise in the back of his throat to indicate he’s still listening while he turns his back to Stiles to focus on coffee and maybe start up some breakfast. Derek takes out two different cereals from the pantry, a couple of bowls, and some milk. He slides them over to Stiles, who nods at him.

“Well, what if I gave them a point? Or some meaning? So I talked to Deaton and Scott. Deaton’s got all those funky herbs and stuff in jars, right? But I figure the magical properties are most likely stronger if they’re fresh. So he gave me the address of this lady who runs a Voodoo Shop of Magical Malarkey or whatever. She sells some of those seeds and I have a green thumb. The terrain is like, not the best for everything, but we’re doing this basically every other day that I can keep an eye on them and to keep them alive based on their needs, right?”

Derek blinks slowly, not used to having this much information so early in the morning, when it’s normally silent. He mulls it over when he grabs the carton of eggs. 

“That sounds good,” he says.

“That’s all you have to say?” Stiles looks annoyed, eyebrows drawn together and a look on his face that’s clearly unimpressed. Stiles pours the milk carelessly, spilling some on the counter and himself. He curses and Derek smiles, feeling a strange fondness, but hides it, in case Stiles gets the wrong idea.

“I think it’s a great idea. I’m glad you’re making progress, Stiles.” Derek nods firmly.

Stiles mouth twists to the side with disappointment. 

“Thanks,” he says, without meaning. His voice sounds steely, and Derek keeps in a sigh. Stiles eats his cereal in angry scoops.

Derek crosses his arms, assessing how to continue from here. He’s not quite sure what it is he’s said to put Stiles off so much, so he just decides to ask him. “Did I say something wrong?” 

“I just thought you’d be,” Stiles shrugs, trying to gather his thoughts. “I thought you’d be more excited. Since this was your whole deal. You’re the one who pushed me to do this, and this is just as much my thing as it is yours.” 

Derek’s breath hitches in his throat. “But now you’re all,'Me Derek Hale. Me no have feelings',” he mocks in a deep, gruff caveman voice, his arms going up to mimic an orangutans. Derek should feel offended, except for the ridiculous look on Stiles’ face. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, sighing. He runs a hand over his face. “I’m...proud of you. That you’re deciding to do this.” 

Stiles loosens, and tries for a nonchalant shrug, then digs back into his cereal.

Derek finishes making a hot cup of coffee and thinks about what Stiles has said. He hadn’t thought of it that way, of this little side project belonging to both of them. He feels like he’s barely done anything for Stiles except give him rides to the preserve and sit in silence. But maybe he’s taking a step in the right direction here. “So I was right? About the planting?” Derek says, not smug, but genuinely curious as Stiles is slurping his milk. 

Stiles rolls his eyes, but smiles anyway. “Yeah, yeah. You were maybe a tinsy bit right. Maybe, about one thing. Congratulations, Derek. You’re not a total lame-o.”

Derek snorts and leans over the counter to shove Stiles forehead, until he almost tips off the stool. Derek smirks and laughs. “But it is helping you?” He says, tone soft and curious.

Stiles nods once. 

A smile spreads over Derek’s face, and Stiles returns it, bashfully.

“Yeah. It is.” 

And boy, does that feel different to have confirmation he’s actually doing something right for once. For someone else. He just wishes he could say that things are going as smoothly with Cora. 

 

Stiles pulls up the address of the shop on his phone and drops his spoon with a clatter.

“How do you feel about a day trip to the great state of Oregon?”

Derek raises an eyebrow. 

“Is that where the shop is?”

“It’s 3 and half hours away, so about 7 hours there and back. If you can’t go, then it’s cool. I’ll just ask Scott or Lydia or…,” he trails off, eyebrows furrowing like he’d forgotten how short his list was.

There’s something apprehensive about the way Stiles is bent on the stool, like if Derek says no, he’ll run out as fast as he can. “I’m free today,” Derek says.

There’s a flash of disappointment in Stiles’ eye, but he straightens up, smiling. “Cool. Yeah, let’s do it. To Oregan-o we go!”

They argue about which car to take for 20 minutes before Stiles’ jeep makes the decision for them when the front boot splits. Stiles makes Derek stop by his house so he can pack a few cold sandwiches and juice pouches, which Derek raises an eyebrow at. 

“What, too dignified for sippy pouches?” Stiles says, grinning. Derek rolls his eyes and sucks one down anyway. Stiles snapchats it to Scott.

He leaves a sandwich for his dad and a note and they head out by 7.

2 miles from the Oregon border, Stiles grips the armrests. Derek glances over at him, watching the way he worries his lip between his teeth. They pass the ‘Leaving California’ and the ‘Welcome to Oregon!’ signs. Stiles exhales the breath he was holding in, pulse quickening to make up for lost oxygen.

“You okay?” Derek quirks a brow.

“Yeah.” Color returns to Stiles’ face. “I was just thinking, we’re really out of Beacon. Out of California and wondering if the crazy will follow us.”

Derek puts the car on cruise so he can concentrate better on Stiles.

“Is that crazy? I mean, I think Beacon and maybe all of California is cursed. Nemeton aside, I think pollution alone is enough to be punished for.”

Derek shakes his head. He gets it, when Cora says Beacon is a cesspool. But chasing tailights out of Beacon and across America with Laura, never turning their backs, showed him how ugly and dangerous the rest of the world is. 

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Derek says. “I think you’re smart.”

With each mile into Oregon, Stiles starts to relax. They stop for fuel and Stiles hops out first, stretching his long legs and yawning.

“I’ll pay for gas. Go grab me a slurpee or something,” Stiles says, pulling out his wallet. Derek rolls his eyes but goes. The gas station is small and cluttered with so much Oregon paraphernalia, Derek has a hard time making his way to the wall of coffee and icees. He picks up a red icee and a small cup of overly sweet coffee for himself.

At the counter, the tired employee asks him if he’d like anything else. He thinks about what Stiles said, how relieved he sounded when they finally crossed the border. He pays for everything, throwing in an Oregon pin before he can stop himself.

+|+

 

They make it to the shop by noon and are greeted by a frail, tanned woman. She looks at the list once, gets all of their things together, giving them time to wander the shop and the attached greenhouse behind.

Aside from plants, the shop seems to be a wiccan store, catering to all sorts of practices. There’s a bucket of staffs that Derek has to pull Stiles away from by the collar before he breaks anything, hanging wind chimes, and a whole wall of gaelic knots and celtic triskeles. Derek buys a triskele bracelet for Cora and a bottle of liquid wolfsbane drops that Derek tells Stiles can be used for alcohol. 

They load up the trunk with plants, packets of seeds, and bags of bulbs and head to the nearest restaurant.

“Are you ready to head back?” Derek asks at dinner.

Stiles stretches, accidentally knocking his foot into Derek’s shin, spoon chasing lazily after lumps of melted icecream. Derek doesn’t even kick his foot away.

“I guess? Not really. I mean, it was nice, being away. But what if my dad gets attacked when we’re heading back? Or Scott comes up with a bad plan and we can’t get there to help him in time?”

“You’re worrying too much,” Derek says, even if he knows he’s being hypocritical.

"I’m worrying just enough, actually. Only way I’ve survived this long,” he smiles, grim. 

“Don't say that," Derek says frowning. Stiles looks at him, surprised at Derek's tone. "You’re going to get out of there. This, Oregon, is just the first step and Scott can take care of himself. He’s getting better at his powers and when we find out how to work with the nemeton-”

“-If,” Stiles corrects.

“Fine. ‘If’ we do, then that’s half of your worry right there.”

Derek pauses, digging into his jacket pocket for the pin. It’s nothing special, just a cheap metal pin with blue lettering. The words ‘Welcome to Oregon!’ are framed by bundles of yellow flowers which Derek assumes are the state flower. He fiddles with it, thumb sliding over the words before he holds it out for Stiles.

“Here,” Derek says.

Stiles picks it up gingerly. “What’s this for?”

“Just think of it as a reminder that you’ve made it before.”

“A totem? You got me a totem?” 

“What are you talking about-”

“It’s a reference to Inception, you loser,” says absently, bending over the table to get a better look at the pin. His thumb pressing into the words until it goes white at the nail. 

“Stiles,” he says. “Just listen. You got out fine. And you can do it again,”

“You’re so lame,” Stiles says, voice small. He let's go of his grip. “Thanks.”

Derek shrugs. He wants to say more something affirming, but he settles on, “You’re pack.”

 

The next morning, they hike along the trail that joggers frequent. Stiles has a paper with his furious scribblings on, and a sack full of different seeds in little bags. He tests the soil for water retention, sunlight and shade at each stop. The plants that have bulbs, Stiles saves for the meadowy areas, and the drier, desert type plants, he sets up by the cliff, where the soil is dry and the rain doesn’t get to. 

 

Stiles plants all of them in the following weeks, then sets up a water schedule that requires two watering cans and a hiking trail. Start with the plants that need water the most, then end with the plants that don’t and hope they have enough water for them when they reach them. 

Derek takes them to Bobby’s to celebrate and pays when the last bulb is planted. It’s a friendly gesture, he tells himself. 

 

There are good days and there are bad days. Derek learns the signals for the good days. Stiles’ steps bounce to the car and sometimes he suggests going to pick up supplies or maybe even grab a quick meal for their evening. He’s talkative, cracks jokes, hands moving constantly as he talks about his day, which Derek always listens to with interest. His eyes are bright and present.

The bad days are really bad. Stiles’ goes quiet, like the eerie calm before a hurricane that never comes. He closes in on himself and sometimes picks fights with Derek, gets under his skin that make Derek leave first, angry and aggravated Stiles still has this much power over him. Sometimes there are good days that turn into bad days. The good moments lasting as long as the sun flitting in and out of clouds.

Derek tries to be careful with topics of conversations. He learns that Stiles hates talking about himself, about his feelings. Scott is a safe topic. School is also a safe topic (but not college and his future). Stiles likes to pry into Derek to avoid talking about himself. And Derek doesn’t have much positive to say about himself. He’s made a lot of mistakes in his past, ones that have kept him from becoming someone very worth mentioning.

 

He talks about Laura and his family. Just little happy snippets, little things that make the ache lessen. It’s been a long time since anyone has heard anything about them, and Stiles is attentive the entire time. He talks about how much his dad loved baking, and how loud his mom could get at his games. They were loving and wonderful, doing the best they could in tense situations. There were always hunters of course, threats of other packs trying to take over Beacon or overthrow his mom, but they handled it together. As a team. 

It helps to talk about them, even if the happy memories are now sad ones.

“Where did you go after the fire?” Stiles asks. The day is crisp and cool, the forest starting to show signs of a stirring spring. Derek can make out a few animals skittering and waking up from their hibernation. He yawns.

Derek places his thumb to hold his place in a book he’s re-reading. It’s been a good day, but quiet overall. They have those sometimes, so the question throws him off.

“We headed east, for a while. We didn’t exactly have a plan.” Derek sets his book down.

“You and Laura, right?” Stiles says, pulling off his gloves. He heads over to Derek, where a cooler with ice and bottles are and takes one out.

“Yeah, just us.” They were all they thought was left and Laura was running from imaginary devils and with too much power, too much responsibility at too young an age 

“We were in Ohio for a week or two, then New Hampshire for a year before we ended up in New York for the rest.”

Stiles sits down by Derek, legs folding with a flair. They’re close enough that their knees can touch, but Derek keeps still. Stiles looks interested when Derek talks a little bit about New York. They’d mostly chosen it because it was so vastly different from Beacon Hills. It was huge and loud all the time, so even when the apartment was dead silent, it wasn’t really. There were too many cars and people bustling about late into the night and into dawn. Distractions were good.

“What was Laura like?”

Derek inhales sharply, eyebrows drawing. The sting of her death is still present in the cages of his ribs and it takes a moment to really talk about her. “Amazing. Kind, soft spoken. A lot like Scott. She cared about me. She cared about everyone she met. She had a gentle walk and never raised her voice, except maybe once or twice. She could kick my ass in duels every time without even blinking. She never gave up on me,” Derek’s voice shakes.

Stiles doesn’t say anything, letting Laura live again in their quiet space. “She sounds incredible.”

Stiles’ hand twitches and Derek thinks he’s going to reach out, but then he pulls back and clasps his hand around his bottle instead. 

"Have you talked to Cora recently? How is she doing?" Stiles asks after a while.

Derek runs a hand through his hair and down to the nape of his neck to massage out an imaginary sore. “I’m not sure.”

“What, you haven’t talked to her?” Stiles frowns, taking a sip of water.

“Truthfully?” Stiles looks expectant and Derek exhales. “She’s not very happy with me.”

“For what?” Stiles’ draws his eyebrows in confusion.

“For staying here. She thinks I chose Beacon Hills over her,” he winces. 

“Huh. I guess I could see that, but I mean, you have attachments here, right? You still have your apartment lease and us.” Us sounds a lot like me. That makes Derek’s heart do a funny flip. But he feels grateful and warm that he’s even wanted here and smiles a little. 

“Yes, I do. I still have to protect Beacon Hills because it’s my job. She doesn’t understand that.”

“So make her understand,” Stiles says with a ‘duh’ expression on his face. “You should talk to her again. But hey, before I forget, I’m gonna switch to the topics of jobs really quick.” Stiles scrambles up and over to his backpack by all of the gardening equipment and pulls out two folders.

“Don’t get offended or anything, but seriously what do you do all day, besides hang out with me?” Derek frowns at the question. He has a routine he sticks to. If there’s nothing life threatening going on, it’s a simple routine. Everything is too chaotic otherwise. Stiles knows that routine, so he doesn’t know how to answer. 

“Exactly.” Stiles snorts. “It’s great you’re helping me out, but you need a job. Like, an adult job with real health benefits and everything.” Derek can feel his eyebrows drawing together in defense. 

“My job is protecting Beacon HIlls,” Derek argues.

“Are you going to put that down as your 401k?” 

Derek glowers. “Just hear me out, okay?” Stiles rolls his eyes, taking the forms from the first folder and shoves them into Derek’s lap. “It’s great that you’re protecting Beacon with the McCall Supernatural Teen Gang. But when we’re not constantly battling new villains, maybe you should actually be protecting the good denizens of Beacon Hills a little more officially.”

Derek looks down at the papers. The first one is a cover letter with a thick, bold Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Office insignia and stamp. Derek looks up to stare at Stiles, who squirms a bit.

“Stiles, I was a wanted criminal. Would I even pass the background check?” Stiles makes a face that’s alarmingly owlish, like he hadn’t considered it. 

“You’re exonerated and you’re a tax paying citizen. They’re pretty desperate for people on the force right now. We have almost zero applicants and it’s running my dad to the ground. He’ll vouch for you, I swear,” Stiles says after a moment, even offering a firm nod like’s he’s sure.

 

Derek exhales through his nose. “I’ll think about it.” It still makes Stiles grin victoriously. “What’s in the other folder?”

“Oh, right,” he hands the entire folder over to Derek to let him skim. They’re apartment listings typed out in a neat list with Stiles’ boyish handwriting jotted in the margins, little notes about pricing and comparisons. The second page is full color layouts and sample pictures and Derek looks up, perplexed. He tamps down hope.

Stiles bites the inside of his bottom lip. “Your loft is a big upgrade from the abandoned subway, but you’re still living in a practically abandoned building in the place that Boyd died.” 

Derek looks away, getting that same cold, familiar feeling in his chest when he thinks about it. It’s true he barely spends his time in the loft except to sleep and eat. He prefers to spend his time in the small bookshop downtown or with Stiles in the preserve.

“I’m not saying you have to move right away or even get that deputy job, but yeah.” Derek nods again, closing the folder. Stiles moves to stand up and smiles at him. 

“Cool.”

Stiles starts to walk back to the impressive hole he’s digging, then turns around.

“Oh, and you should call Cora.”

 

+|+

Derek does not call Cora. But, he does spend some time rifling through the folder that Stiles put together for him, starting with the listings first. It’s true that the loft feels like a grave, even if he loves the big, open windows.

 

 _Plants watered. Diner?_ Stiles texts him, which Derek has learned is code for ‘I have something important to talk about.’

There’s a plate of eggs with scallions waiting for him when he slides into his seat, Stiles boothside like always. Stiles is shoveling eggs into his mouth, and launches into a story.

“I’ve never been to this diner before this, you know. Cause first off, it’s in the middle of nowhere, which I get why it’s your thing, but secondly, it doesn’t even look open from the outside.” Which was true, because it was a dingy little place that looked like no one would be at. It was the first reason why Derek went in at all, hoping not to attract deputies looking for him. 

They talk for a bit more until Stiles looks like he's going to explode if he doesn't say it now. Derek sips his coffee when Stiles pushes his plate away.

“Scott asked me to come visit Allison’s grave. I don’t think I can, you know? But I have to, because it’s Scott.”

Derek stills.

“When are you going?”

“Sometime tomorrow. It’s been three months.”

“How am I supposed to do this?” Stiles says out-loud, mostly to himself. Derek doesn’t know how to answer, but he doesn’t have to, because Stiles gets an idea. He learns forward in the booth, eyebrows raised and lips pursed.

“Will you- would you come with me? I mean, Lydia will already be there, but it’d be nice to have you there too.”

Derek swallows. 

“Yes. I’ll go with you.”

+|+

 

Missing someone who’s dead doesn’t stop. Not after one week, not after one year. It doesn’t stop. That’s what Derek has learned in his 7 years of sorrow, the full stop truth that death stays with you. 

He still misses the taste of his dad’s pumpkin pie and his patient voice and strength as they built the porch together. He misses his mother’s wisdom and the way she would sweep back his hair out of his eyes. He misses Laura’s kindness and the smell of perfume. He misses the house and the pattering of his cousins’ feet as they played downstairs. 

He misses them the exact same amount, with the exact same ferocity as the day of the fire. It hasn’t gotten better.

Maybe it has become more bearable, because there are others in Derek’s life that he has to worry about now that he doesn’t have time to think of his family all the time. Worrying for the living is much more productive than remembering the dead, he’s found.

That’s what he’s thinking when he stands on the graves of his family for the first time in 7 years. He’s wearing his best suit, not funeral clothes, because they don’t exist. Not when he didn’t go.

The day is mild, but the layers are starting to make him sweat. 

Allison’s grave is a surprisingly close to the Hale graves, close enough that he can still spot the trio in the distance. Scott is leaning into Lydia and Stiles hovers, nervously around them. Derek turns his attention to the graves, to the headstones carefully etched. He thought he’d feel something more, but there’s nothing. Just this blank inside him as he stares at the slabs of marble marking each member of his pack. There’s no connection, no big sweeping feeling.

He sighs, running his hands over his mother’s name and make his way back to Stiles’ side.

Lydia kneels down, pressing her forehead to Allison’s name, whispering something too soft to hear. Scott bends down to drop a bouquet of red roses on the headstone, hands trembling. Stiles turns his head to greet Derek when he comes up, looking calm enough for Scott and Lydia. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he says quietly to Stiles, who shrugs.

“You still came.”

The grass on Allison’s grave has grown back, bright green and trimmed neatly. Nothing like Laura’s grave.

He vividly remembers digging it. The house groaned behind him from the rainy night before and he spent an hour digging, digging, digging, and not looking at Laura’s mangled body- her open eyes and slack-terror expression. She smelled like rot and her fruit perfume she loved. 

The dirt was damp enough, but got harder to dig the further he went down, into the baked clay where careless construction worker poured too much cement. He laid her down carefully into the ground, collapsing into it with her, wishing the would fill up with him still in it. 

Stiles shakes him out of it, bumping shoulders and smiling grimly. 

"So you're okay?" he asks, eyes tracking Stiles’ face.

"Yeah, surprisingly. I'm good." Stiles offers a smile, tight-lipped. 

The sound of Lydia’s soft sobs carry in the wind.

+|+

The mood is dim by the time they get to the loft. Derek pulls out a bottle of whiskey while the others shuffle over to the couch. He pours himself a drink, downing it before he fills the other glasses. Stiles joins him, wolfsbane droppers in his hands. He pauses, glancing worriedly at Derek, down at his firm grip on the Hennessy bottle. He puts the droppers down and moves towards him, prying the bottle out of his hands.

“Derek, let me,” he says, voice gentle. Derek looks at him, trying to search for an answer in his eyes. He can feel Stiles’ pulse in his hands and his warm breath on his cheek and it’s too much for him. Suddenly, he’s thinking about how cold Laura felt in his arms and how he can’t remember the last thing his father said to him and it’s all at once; a dizzying spiral of thoughts he can’t contain.

There’s a strange noise that breaks from his throat and he feels frozen. Stiles eyes harden and he pulls the bottle fully away. He moves away briefly, shoving the bottle into a random cabinet, then moves right back to Derek. 

Derek breathes hard, leaned against the counter with one clenched fist, the other at his side. Stiles lays a hand on top of Derek’s and slides his other hand down the other arm, gently guiding him away from the kitchen to the corner by the staircase. 

“What’s going on?” Stiles asks in a low voice, far away enough from Lydia and Scott.

His eyes snap to Stiles'. He doesn’t know where to start. How can he tell Stiles he never went to their funerals. How he couldn’t make himself move and slept at the motel outside of Beacon while Laura got ready. How Laura went back every year and never pressured him into going with her. He hadn’t visited one time, too worried it’d be exactly like this.

His hands are shaking and he jerks his head, unable to answer. He shuts his eyes, grits his teeth.

“I hadn’t ever been,” he rasps out. “I’ve never been to their graves.” He opens his eyes.

It dawns on Stiles, eyes widening and lips parted.

“Holy _shit_ , Derek,” he hisses. “You should’ve said something, Christ. You didn’t have to come.”

“I wanted to,” he swallows, smiling weakly. “I needed to.”

They’re still holding hands when Stiles pulls him forward. Derek goes willingly, crumbling against Stiles, head tucking into his neck. Stiles lets go of his hand, wrapping his arms around Derek. It’s a little awkward. They’ve never hugged before, but Derek closes his eyes again, shuddering into Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles hand comes back down to his, brushing against it lightly, and sighs. His chin digs into Derek’s shoulder.

“You don’t know the meaning of ‘baby steps’, do you bud?” Derek snorts.

It feels nice to be held. It’s been so long.

They finally pull apart, and Stiles looks rosy.

“Are you okay? For real?” Stiles asks.

“No.”

“Okay. Do you want to get drunk?”

“I don’t know.”

Stiles nods. “Let’s get you a drink,” he decides for him.

They join Lydia, who Derek notices has not bothered to fix her ruined makeup, and Scott back at the couch, a fresh drink in Derek’s hand. Scott and Lydia have helped themselves to the wolfsbane drops going by the glassy look in Scott’s eye. 

“To Allison,” Lydia says, her confident voice faltering. They all repeat it, in murmurs, Stiles downs his whole glass and wincing while Derek privately tacks on Erica and Boyd’s name to the end of the toast before drinking. 

“I can’t believe it’s been three months already,” Scott says. “Sometimes I can’t understand it.”

Lydia sighs, putting her glass down. “That’s because it doesn’t make any sense.”

Scott smiles, a dimmed version of his usual grin. “But she’s looking down on us right now. She’s in a better place and she won’t ever have to be scared or sad again. At least, that’s what I hope.”

Stiles flinches and Derek shifts his leg so their thighs are touching.

 

+|+

“Thank you for coming today. You really didn’t have to,” Stiles says, lingering by the metal door after the clack of Lydia’s heels fade away.

Derek shakes his head. “I said I would go.”

“Yeah and then you almost had a panic attack,” Stiles says, unhappily. “Scared the shit outta me. Just don’t ever- don’t feel like you have to do something if you’re not ready for it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind but I should’ve come to visit them sooner. It was just a lot,” he sighs. “All at once. Seven years worth.”

“Is it okay, if I stay here tonight?” Derek tenses, raising an eyebrow. Stiles rubs his face.

“It’s just, I’m still sort of buzzed and I don’t want to be alone right now. My dad has the night shift and I think I’ll have nightmares-”

Derek stops him, grabbing him by the arm.

“Bed’s all yours. I’ll take the couch.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

 

Derek takes his favorite pillow and the top sheet over to the couch, and sets up his makeshift bed. Stiles brushes his teeth in the bathroom with a spare brush, one from a two pack he’d bought for Jennifer, a million years ago. By the time he’s laying, Stiles hops into his bed, and shifts around restlessly.

It’s nice, listening to his breathing and the scratchy sound of the sheets moving and his impatient fingers tapping on Derek’s pillow he probably has his face smushed in, though Derek can’t see from here.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” he says.

“Night,” Stiles replies, voice muffled against the pillow. It makes Derek smile.

+|+

Eventually, Stiles falls into a fitful sleep, loud enough to keep Derek awake. He makes tiny, hitched noises of distress, so Derek sighs, sliding off of the couch and moves to the bed. He softly shakes Stiles awake. He scrambles up, screaming, almost elbowing Derek in the stomach. Derek kneels down on the bed, hands gripping Stiles shoulders to pull him in and calm him.

“Hey, it’s just me. You were having a nightmare.”

Stiles comes to, breathing hard, looking more haggard than Derek has seen in ages. His heart slows, so Derek moves away to sit next to Stiles on the bed.

“I kind of figured that would happen, but I didn’t think it’d be that bad. Sorry,” Stiles winces.

“Don’t apologize.”

Stiles exhales, flopping back down on the bed.

“I think it was worse cause this isn’t my bed. Or my pillow.”

“Do you want me to drive you home?”

“Nah,” Stiles says. 

Derek yawns and starts to stand up when Stiles’ fingers brush his forearm. Derek turns to face Stiles, eyes tracking his face. Stiles looks tired and scared, like he’s afraid Derek will leave him all alone. 

“Um,” Stiles says quietly, the real question in his eyes. 

“I can, if you want me to,” Derek says, slowly. 

“Yeah, uh. The bed’s big enough. I feel bad enough I impromptu crashed at yours. I won’t make it awkward if you don’t make it awkward?”

“Okay,” Derek says. “Let me get my pillow.”

Stiles nods, fidgety and rolls onto the other side of the bed, enough room to fit another person in between them. Derek comes back and slides in, feeling awkward until another yawn escapes him. 

He closes his eyes, body sagging into the bed, sleep just at his reaches when-

“Do you believe in Heaven?” Stiles whispers.

Derek groans silently to himself, but pushes himself on one elbow to twist around. Stiles is on his stomach, facing the opposite way, but shifts to face Derek. 

“A little late to be asking me existential questions,” Derek says, smiling a little anyway. Stiles almost turns back around. “I’m kidding. I noticed you tensing up when Scott talked about Allison in Heaven. So I’m guessing you don’t.”

“I never said that.”

“Okay, so what do you think?”

“I think that when my mom died, I wished she was somewhere better. But I could never prove it, even though I wanted to. So badly. I just kept thinking, she had such a shitty disease and she was the best person in the world, that she deserved it. To be happy, you know? But then, she’d be happy if she was still here, with us, and didn’t have dementia. And I just kept thinking to myself, how can a God, if there is one, be cruel and selfish enough to give someone dementia just to prove something. As a life lesson or some shit. I just stopped. It pissed me off, so I never thought about it again. I just knew I’d never see her again, and that was it. I don’t know if she’s in Heaven, because I don’t know if it exists.”

Derek reaches out, across the space of the bed, finding Stiles’ fingers to tangle them together. 

Stiles smiles wryly, giving Derek’s hand a light squeeze. “But then again, there are werewolves and kanimas, so maybe.”

“Maybe,” Derek agrees. “I got to talk to my mom, but I don’t know if there’s a Heaven either. Just something unexplainable.”

“Yeah.” Stiles closes his eyes, a soft sigh escape. His breathing evens, but Derek waits a full five minutes before he retracts his hand, just in case, and drifts asleep.

+|+

He wakes up before Stiles, who’s snuffling quietly, faced down, arm hanging off of the bed. The gap between the never closed, both of them staying on their own sides all night. Derek barely shifted, too hyper aware of the warm body next to him, of how if he turned enough, rolled to his front, he’d be pressed up against Stiles’ back.

He checks the time on his phone, then slides out of bed, glancing over his shoulder at Stiles’ mussed head and smiles. 

Derek pads into the bathroom for a quick shower and when he’s out, towel drying his head in some clean sweats and a stretched out henley, Stiles is already gone, bowl of empty cereal in the sink that Derek snorts at. He finds a text waiting for him:

_Sorry I had to leave. Thought I could stay a little longer, but Dad called. Thanks for letting me crash last night. See you tomorrow?_

The little question mark like a promise. Derek’s lips lift into a smile. He replies back:

 _Definitely._  
+|+ 

Things progress the same way they have been, although Derek catches Stiles staring at him, cheeks pink and a bashful smile in the car every so often. Stiles just shrugs it off, veering the conversation into something friendly and energetic to cut the tension. They spend more time talking than planting, now that it’s mainly upkeeping the new greens.

Stiles' watering schedule is a good plan, up until the torrential downpour that threatens the barely budding desert plants. The rain is a heavy sheet, making the sky so black, it looks like night time, even though it’s barely 4 in the afternoon. Stiles shows up with tarps and together, they brave the whipping winds. They make their way down the path, Stiles cursing to himself almost the entire way to the cliffs on the slippery muck. They cover the soggy, drowned patch. Even from his brief examination, Derek knows they aren’t going to survive.

“It’s not going to work!” Derek shouts against the rolls of thunder and Stiles grinds his teeth in frustration. 

They still have two more tarps to get down, but the rain and wind are too strong, the soil too soupy and thick, drowning the root system.

“Come on, let’s go back. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.” Derek puts his arm on Stiles’ shoulder, hauling him up after Stiles nearly bites it again on loosened rocks. Stiles nods at him, but looks disappointed anyway.

They head back to Derek’s loft first to get Stiles’ jeep, and then together, still dripping onto the frayed leather, back to Stiles’ house to use the dryer. The sheriff’s cruiser is gone, and the house is dark. Stiles has to out turn his wet jean pockets for the house keys. They enter through the kitchen door, the house warm and dry. Stiles brushes past Derek. 

“Stay here and try not to drip. I’m gonna get towels to lay on the floor.” Derek nods in acknowledgement and pulls off his ruined boots with a ‘schtk’, the muddy sand seeped into his gray, now browned, socks. He sighs, and opens the door to set them on the step just as Stiles comes back with a handful of frayed towels. He tosses them carelessly to the floor, then uses a smaller one to mop up the track of puddles he’s made.

Derek does the next logical thing, which is to get the hell out of the very uncomfortable, clinging wet clothes. He peels off his shirt and can feel Stiles’ eyes watching him closely.

“Uh, yeah you,” Stiles stutters out. “Keep doing that, I’m- I’ll go get more towels.” Stiles shuffles out again, leaving Derek shirtless with a heavy vneck in his hands, unsure of whether or not he should start on the jeans, which are definitely starting to chafe. 

He decides to wait for the towels. Stiles comes back looking a great deal less miserable in new, dry clothes. His hair is sticking up everywhere from being towel dried, and Derek has to fight back his very strong imagery of pressing Stiles back against the kitchen island and kissing him slowly. Feeling his warm shirt getting damp from Derek's skin. Feeling his ridiculous tufts of hair underneath his fingers. 

Stiles hands Derek the towel an arms length away, then pads over to the fridge. Derek dries off his top half, then hesitates trying to get out of his jeans. 

"Do you have any clothes I can change into?" 

Stiles makes an 'oh yeah' face, then darts back upstairs. Derek uses this time to shuck away his jeans and underwear, wipe the mud off his ankles and tuck the towel around his waist. Stiles comes back holding a pair of his dad’s old sweats: a Bruins hoodie and a pair of pants that have a faded ‘UCLA wrestling’ on the pocket. 

“Thank you,” Derek says when Stiles hands him the new clothes in exchange for the wet ones. Stiles shrugs and rounds the corner to where Derek presumes is the laundry room. There’s a metallic clang as Stiles tosses in their dirty clothes in and he’s back in an instant.

“Want anything to drink?” Stiles zips to the fridge.

“Anything you’re having is fine,” Derek says. Stiles’ back is to him and Derek quickly pulls on the sweatpants. When he glances up, Stiles’ back is still to him, shoulders tense. There’s a pause, then Stiles rummages through the fridge door and procures two apple juices, turning just in time to see Derek pull the hoodie over his head. Stiles narrows his eyes, tossing Derek the juice.

Derek catches it easily and raises his eyebrows in question. Stiles shakes his head, letting out a lengthy sigh.

“Nothing, just thinking about how unfair you are,” he mumbles. “Anyway,” he breezes past, as if the last statement was nothing. Derek blinks. “The plants. I really don’t want the plants to die. It’d be a huge waste if they did.”

“We can replant again. Not a big deal.” Derek watches Stiles hop onto the kitchen counter, looking apprehensive about something.

“I mean, I guess we could. But spring is only a few weeks away, and lacrosse…,” Stiles scratches at his jaw nervously.

“What is it, Stiles?” Derek asks evenly, though he’s sure what the answer is.

“Dad’s letting me off the hook,” he eyes Derek for a reaction, then tilts his head a few times. “I’m ungrounded and gearing back up for lacrosse with Scott. So, I probably won’t be doing this thing. As much. Don’t get me wrong, it was a good idea at first, but don’t really have to watch the plants as closely once they start budding. Unless this freakin’ rain destroys everything. I’ll have to start again next season.”

And it makes sense. Of course it does, but Derek has to keep at bay the rush of disappointment that floods him. All good things must come to an end. Even this, which Derek isn’t sure could be described as a good thing. No matter if they could continue again next season or tentatively hang outside of their routine, it will be different. Stiles will always choose his other friends over Derek and put his focus on lacrosse and school could all together replace the flowers.

They weren’t friends before, really, so he can’t see himself hanging out with him as buddies. Stiles seems to think the same way.

Derek keeps his expression neutral, eyes focusing on Stiles’ hands clasped around the juice box. He crosses his arms, shrugging a little.

“Well, if that’s what you think is what’s best, then that’s what we’ll do,” he flicks his eyes up to Stiles’ face, surprised to see how much Stiles’ face is mirroring what he’s feeling. Stiles slides off the counter and takes a tentative step toward Derek.

 

“Is that what you think is best? What do you want?” Stiles says, voice pitching. Derek can hear the layered question in his voice and his body language tilted into Derek’s orbit.

“What I want doesn’t matter,” Derek says steadily, almost a whisper. 

“Why do you say shit like that?” Stiles shakes his head. “What you want matters, because you matter, dumbass.”

Derek wants to believe that’s true.

He’s not sure who closes the gap. Derek is faintly aware of Stiles dropping the juice box in favor of pressing himself against Derek, hands gently cupping at his jaw. Derek’s hand goes to Stiles’ waist and their knees knock together. Stiles’ lets their noses brush before he presses his lips against Derek. It’s such a simple kiss, but it breaks everything loose inside of his bones. Stiles slides his long arms around Derek’s shoulders, shifting enough to allow Derek’s knee to slip between Stiles’ legs. 

When they pull away, Stiles’ eyes are still closed, a smile crinkling the corners of his cheeks. Derek can feel himself smiling too, his thumbs sliding in between the soft hem of Stiles’ shirt and his sweatpants to touch the skin there. Just like he’s wanted to for months.

Stiles hands slide into Derek's hair and pull him forward, but he pulls away enough, eyes closed and his warm, sweet breath puffing onto his his cheek. 

“Is this okay?” Stiles asks, slowly opening his eyes. 

“Yeah, it is,” he replies.

He lets Stiles lead the next kiss, dipping his tongue into the hot, wet space of Stiles’ mouth and enjoying the tiny moans he draws out. When Stiles pulls away, overwhelmed, Derek nuzzles into his neck, kissing and licking at the cut of Stiles’ jaw. Stiles is muttering little, “fuck, fuck, shit’s” that make Derek grin. 

Derek has never wanted like this before, never lost himself in someone else like this. 

“Can we?” he says, voice sounding wrecked already. 

“Yes yes yes,” Stiles says, pulling on the front of the hoodie to the stairs. They stumble up the steps, kissing each other and colliding into the bannister and walls. It’s not enough. There are too many layers and Derek just wants to sink into Stiles.

They get there, eventually, clothes pulled off at intervals like bread crumbs. The hoodie is gone and Stiles eyes him, hungry and intent. Stiles is stripped down to his boxers and socks. Derek’s hands never leave Stiles’ hips, guiding him to bed by the bones and Stiles spins so his knees hit the bed, Derek on top of him. 

His lips are a bitten red, and Derek leans down to kiss him again, teasing and languid. Stiles bucks up, shamelessly. 

“Get the fuck out of those sweatpants, right now,” Stiles says, yanking them off, smearing come on the waistband when it rubs against his cock. Derek moans against Stiles’ jawline, collapsing on top of him.

“Oh my god, no,” Stiles says and quickly rearranges things so he’s less crushed under Derek’s weight. Derek noses at his throat in apology, shifting so his legs are on either side of Stiles’ waist. The sweatpants twist around his calves and he can’t be bothered, because Stiles is splayed out under him and he wants his Stiles’ cock in his mouth yesterday.

He takes his time once Stiles quiets down. He wants to taste every inch of his skin, run his tongue across the dips and planes of Stiles. He wants to open Stiles up and find out what makes up this funny little human boy. Derek takes a swipe at Stiles’ right nipple before taking it completely in his mouth. He listens for the hitch in Stiles’ throat and the strong, thundering heart beat, and the blood rushing quickly to pool in his ignored cock. Derek splays his hand along Stiles’ freckled chest and moves back up to kiss at Stiles’ throat, sucking hard enough at the skin that it bruises. 

Stiles’ hands wander across Derek’s shoulders and his fingers tangle in his hand, letting out soft little sighs when Derek brushes his knuckles along the length of his cock, allowing his thumb to swipe at the head just once. Stiles’ hips jerk up and he moans into the back of his hand. 

That makes Derek impatient and he scoots down the rest of the way, and presses his lips to the tip of Stiles’ cock. He’s average in length, but wide and Derek’s eyes flutter shut when he imagines it in his throat. He lets out a desperate noise and takes the cock into his mouth, splitting his lips obscenely around it.

“Oh my god, oh my god, Derek,” Stiles chokes out, fisting a hand to Derek’s hair. Derek looks up, watching the long pale neck of Stiles’, the chord of muscle straining against his skin. His eyes are half shut and he keeps lolling his head back, letting out a string of moans and groans. Derek bobs his head up and down, loving the way Stiles’ precum tastes and the weight of Stiles’ in his mouth. He lets out pleased grumbles from deep in his throat that make Stiles’ hips cant up, like he’s helpless with it. Stiles lets out a sound close to a sob when Derek chokes around him, trying to take him as far as possible. He sucks on the crown, flicking his tongue over the slit and then takes the whole length in one swallow, cheeks hollowing. Stiles bucks up, helpless. 

He comes up for a moment, to breathe and suckle on the base and skin loose skin of his balls, hand still working the wet shaft. His lips feel bruised and puffed and Stiles forcibly pulls him up by the armpits to get his mouth back on him. Derek feels drunk, warm, pressed up against Stiles, who’s rolling them over. He traps Derek against his body, reaching down to grab Derek’s cock. Derek whines into Stiles’ mouth, humping and thrusting against the tight circle of Stiles’ fist.

Stiles leans down on one forearm, shifting so their cocks align. They both groan when Derek’s hand comes to join Stiles. He keeps his lips on Stiles’ throat, feeling the vibrations of all of the moans that pass through, getting lost in the sensation of Stiles’ body heat and fucking into the tight grips of their fists. 

He comes first, toes curling, breath shaped in Stiles’ name. 

“Come on, come. Please, need you to,” he slurs. Stiles sobs, grinding down on his hip and the mess of his come. Derek meets his mouth and Stiles comes, biting hard enough on Derek’s bottom lip that it draws blood. 

He collapses, soon after, breathing heavily and eyes dazed. Derek wraps his arm around him, feeling sated and pleased. 

“That was,” Stiles says, still panting. “Yes.”

“Yes,” Derek repeats, smiling into Stiles’ hair. Stiles’ face is pressed into his neck and neither of them care about how sticky and sweaty they are. 

Stiles tilts his head up at an awkward angle, just so he can plant one more sloppy kiss on Derek’s lips, then closes his eyes, grinning. He hesitates a little, so Derek leans in, dragging his nose against Stiles’ temple and down to catch his lips. Stiles smiles against them.

“Sleep time,” he says through a yawn, then falls right to sleep.

Derek is not much further behind him.

 

+|+

In the darkness of Stiles’ room, reality settles back in the seams holding him together. It's always the cruel silence where doubt starts to creep in.

It’s not-he’s not ready, he realizes for the terrifying intensity in which he wants, possibly even loves, Stiles. 

What if this was all Stiles wanted? Getting off and then dropping out of Derek’s life forever. He doesn’t think he could blame Stiles for that, not when Derek hardly has his life together. The more time they spend together, the more Stiles will see how unsuitable for a relationship Derek is. 

And that's what he's not ready for, an inevitable and painful rejection, giving into the truth that Derek doesn't deserve Stiles.

Somewhere during their nap, Stiles has shifted away from Derek, laying away on his side. He watches the rise and fall of Stiles’ chest, the way his mouth hangs slightly open, the slopes of his nose and brow. His hands are clasped in front of him. 

 

Derek exhales through his nose, then pushes himself off of Stiles’ mattress, resolve firm. Stiles stirs, so Derek waits till his breathing evens before he leaves.

+|+

 

He calls off the last week of flower work with Stiles, telling him he has some things to fix with Cora. He stays vague, shuts off his phone.  
It’s not that he’s lying, but he’s using the opportunity to keep a clear head about what happened with Stiles. Some time away would be good.

And he does want to fix things with Cora. He hasn’t skyped her in nearly a month and it’s something he wants to piece back together before she decides to cut him off for good. 

He calls Cora collect instead of skyping. She picks up, sounded guarded and clipped off.

“Did you think about my offer for you to visit?” Derek asks.

Cora sighs on the other end. “Yes.”

“So will you?”

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Derek.” He knows she wants him to convince her. He owes it to her. He has to show her he wants things to be better.

“I think what you said was right. We’re all we have left and I’d like to spend time with you and get to know you again. You’re important to me, Cora. You’re still my little sister and I’m sorry… if I haven’t been a good brother to you.”

“You haven’t,” she responds easily. The silence that follows is awkward, but eventually she sighs again.

“I have work here, so I don’t know if I can ask off.”

“That’s okay. I’ll come to you.” 

The plan is to fly out in a week, at the start of April. He’s visiting for ten days, all he’s allowing himself to budget, especially since all of the new apartment listings are much more expensive than the loft.

Derek’s not sure how to relay the news to Stiles, so he doesn’t. Instead, he leaves Beacon quietly.

The sun breaks across Argentina’s landscape when Derek lands. 

Cora is leaning against the glass entryway, looking neutral. She nods to him in greeting and he pulls her into an awkward forced sidehug that Stiles would’ve made fun of later if he was here. She smells like herself underneath the foreign smells. She’s guarding her emotions too, so he can’t get a good reading

The first day is awkward and bizarre. But it’s a busy day. She takes him through the crowded streets to the markets, buzzing with people and a whirlwind of rapid fire spanish. Cora buys a bag of fresh flour for tonight’s dinner and then they head to the ranch that the pack owns. It’s outside of the city with big, open fields. They pass by dozens of workers, all who are werewolves, Derek realizes.

Cora explains that the pack is actually three separate packs allied together. “It keeps the peace and there is a forum of alphas that get together to talk about the needs of the pack. It keeps us protected, because the hunters here in South America are vicious and don't follow the code. Anyone can join at any time and it gives us work. Helps everyone out of trouble,” Cora said like she’d rehearsed it. Still, Derek is amazed.

The main core pack live at the mansion. There are around 14 werewolves and some odd humans and Cora introduces them to Derek. Most of the werewolves seem disinterested in them, so they have plenty of time to catch up. The conversation is stilted. Derek is trying to find a way to apologize. For everything. He’s the one who ruined their lives, her life, and put her on the run for seven years. Cora doesn’t talk about what happened in those six years. But he knows she’s good at bargaining and moving through the streets like she owns them. Her hands are fast and feet are light. It’s easy enough for him to imagine a 12 year old Cora pickpocketing to get by. And maybe something even worse he doesn’t want to think about.

 

Derek doesn’t ask Cora outright what she did after the fire. She doesn’t ask him either, though he’d been able to respond to Stiles when he’d asked. Cora isn’t Stiles, and Stiles isn’t family. It’s all very complicated.

Instead, they tell each other things on their own. Slipping them into casual conversations. Cora leads him through the city with confidence, nodding to some boys hustling tourists around crowded areas. It confirms that Cora might’ve hustled and pickpocketed to get by.

Derek learns Cora’s strong aversions to eggs the second day in. 

“I hate eggs. I can’t eat them,” she’d said simply when they went to lunch and he ordered them. He accepted it, ready to move on until Cora wrinkled her nose and added, “Riding in the back of a truck with a bunch of chickens and hens for ten hours does that.”

He understands it as an offering to exchange histories. He doesn’t have anything nearly as troubling as Cora must’ve been through. Laura cared for him and they’d had more than enough insurance money to last them both into retirement. Laura still pinched pennies though, staying in that same tiny apartment for 4 years.

Derek doesn’t have any stories he can think of, so he lets her continue.

“Did you have to do it often?” he asks.

She shakes her head, leaning her chin on a fist and slouches. “Just enough times to hate eggs,” she says with a nearly relaxed smile.

They spend the next few days hanging around the ranch. Cora is one of the few werewolves who works in the city during the day, so Derek sits around the empty guest room a lot to read or work on apartment paperwork. He considers calling Stiles a few times, but talks himself out of it.

He’s not sure if Cora has fully forgiven him, but she treats him normally in front of her adoptive family, so it’s not all bad.

After dinner time, which is loud and exuberant always, lasting up to 3 hours sometimes, Derek wants to crash immediately. But Cora seems used to it and hangs around some werewolves her age or joins in on a quick game of football before the sun goes down. 

Cora finds his deputy application stuffed in the top pocket of his suitcase one night when they’re both lounging around. It’s been partially filled out and forgotten. Cora looks curious and looks over it.

“Police work?” 

He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. Cora reads through some of it, though he’s essentially only filled out the most basic information. 

“So you’re really going to settle there?” She doesn’t sound bitter, for which he is grateful. She just sounds a tad disbelieving.

“It’s home,” he says. “it’s always been home and I’m going to protect it.” That wouldn’t change now, even with Cora thousands of miles away. He couldn’t fit in here the way she does and Beacon Hills nearly killed Cora twice. He’d almost died a lot there too, but there’s nowhere else in the world that feels as right as Beacon.

He can’t read Cora’s face and she falters into something sad. He stands up and takes her hand gently.

“Beacon is my home, but you’ve found a home too. I’m glad you found it.” Her expression flickers, and he’s afraid he’s said something wrong. But then, she’s smiling, slow to warm.

“It is my home here.”

He nods.

“Are you mad at me?” He asks gently.

She shakes her head. “I get it. I don’t like it, but I can’t be mad at you if you’re making a place for yourself.”

It’s a relief. A blessing.

 

+|+

Ten days are over in a flash.

Cora watches him pack his things with a solemn, stony expression; the same one she used when their mother had to travel far away for pack negotiations. In a word, she looks miserable. Cora used to cry nonstop until Talia came back home, scooping Cora into her arms and whispering soothing things into her hair. She’d let Cora sleep in between her and their dad, and Laura and Derek would join later in jealousy. They’d all squeeze onto that king sized bed, glad that they were all safe and well.

He glances at her, recording to memory all the ways in which she is the same and different. It’s been a long, hard seven years for them both, and there’s no missing the weary way Cora holds herself.

“I can’t make you stay,” she says as he zips his bag shut. He glances over, and her eyes look distant.

“No,” he sighs.

“Let me finish. I can’t make you stay and Beacon is your home. So don’t die,” she meets his eye, finally. Her fists are clenched and she’s biting back tears. He kneels in front of her, taking her small hands in his. It feels like they’re ten years younger both waiting on mother to come back home.

“I’m not going to die.”

“You can’t promise something like that,” she shakes her head, voice wobbling as the tears stream down her face. “I just found you and you’re going to die, then I’ll be alone again, Derek.”  
He pulls her to his chest, because there’s not much else to say. She’s right that he can’t keep a promise like that, so he lets her tears soak into his shirt and he holds her tight.

Cora manages to pull herself together and they head to the airport in silence. He gives her the triskele bracelet before he gets in the TSA line. “Don’t forget that you can come visit me in Beacon any time, okay?”

She sniffs, nose still stuffed and eyes red from her crying. She gives him a short smile, slipping the bracelet on, and wipes her tears again.

Derek leans down, pecking her on the forehead. “I’ll see you soon, brat.”

“Jackass,” she replies, letting out a tinkling laugh and a real smile. “Call me when you get home.”

 

+|+

 

Derek avoids Stiles and the onslaught of text messages when he gets home. He’d left his phone off most of the trip on purpose and now that he’s back home, there’s no avoiding it. His voicemail is full, first casual sounding ones from Stiles, asking him if they can talk, then some that sound desperate and panicked, and finally an embittered, “fuck you, dude.”

He walks outside of the loft to find a patch of small, cheap flowers, arranged on the ground to spell out: 

_You’re an asshole_

The ‘e’ is unfinished and is instead replaced by twigs. Derek wants to laugh, but something clenches up inside him.. 

Derek avoids walking in that direction out of the loft from then on.

+|+

 

He doesn’t know how to apologize, how to explain himself, especially leaving Stiles in the dirt like that. He focuses on patching his life back together, so maybe he can show Stiles instead. 

Derek dropped off the application a week ago, the curious eyes of deputies watching him make his way to the Sheriff’s office, and got a call for an interview set for today.

He’s wearing his best suit, a dark maroon jacket he forgot he had. Laura picked out for him for her graduation date. He never got a chance to wear it. He smooths down his tie, already feeling the sweat pool at his temples from nervousness. He looks respectable enough in the suit, and he’d even shaved down the beard some. He exhales to his reflection one more time, grabs his keys, and slides open the door of the loft, so distracted he crashes into Stiles on the way out.

They stumble, Stiles falling back on his hands. 

“Shit,” Derek mutters under his breath, offering a hand to Stiles, who glares at him from the ground. He looks very, very pissed and stands up abruptly.

“You’re avoiding me. And don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter. You’re avoiding me and I’m the master of avoiding things, so I know that’s what you’re doing.”

Derek crosses his arms. He can't deny it, so instead he straightens and says, “I’m sorry for avoiding you.”

Stiles throws up his hands, like that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. 

“Aaahnk- wrong answer, pal. Why- why the fuck. You just fucking left! Without telling anyone! I thought you were dead. But that doesn’t matter, cause you’re obviously fine now, so why-”

“I had to fix things with Cora. I had to,” Derek shifts through his words. “I was getting too close to you when I should’ve been there to support you. I should’ve been happy just to be in your life, as your friend.”

“Yeah, see, I’m not satisfied with that. We weren’t friends, Derek. We’d make pretty terrible friends who erotically touch each other’s shoulders and everyone assumes is dating. Look, you don’t think you deserve me, or whatever. And I get that you don’t think you deserve nice things. Which is why you live in an apartment that your friend died in next to some seedy district with no washer and dryer, okay? I got it loud and clear," Stiles rambles, jaw pinking in frustration.

“I get that you have a lot of issues to get through, but I don’t care, because I like you. And I’m better now, but I’m not amazing. Those flowers didn’t fix me, Derek. I’m still pretty fucked up about Allison. I still have night terrors and panic attacks and I probably will for the next ten years. I hate being wrong, and I hate talking about myself- which thanks by the way. So what I’m trying to say is, is that I’m not good. So you don’t have to worry about breaking me. Or not deserving me, because this is the way I am, and all I can do is try and get better.”

Stiles has swayed forward in his speech, feet carrying him closer to Derek like a magnet. They're so close that Derek has to uncross his arms and stop Stiles from butting into his chest. It is worse, having to touch him like this, when he still wants it. It is almost unbearable.

"I know. I know you are and that's, it's not that," he licks his lips, levelling his words carefully. "I- what do you want from this?"

Stiles eyebrows screw in confusion. "I just want to be with you. Does it have to be complicated?"

Derek shakes his head.

"It is complicated, for me. I'm not ready. For a relationship. Stiles, you're the one who made me realize that I don't have anything for myself, that I don't do anything for myself. Not really. I'm applying for the deputy position and I'm getting a new apartment and maybe even a house, but I can't think about being with anyone when I'm like this. Even if I still want you," he says and that puts a shiver down Stiles' spine. 

“Fuck.”

It feels like an eternity before Stiles steps back, out of Derek’s space, nodding jerkily like he gets it, but like he’s been burned too. He looks like he might cry and Derek's insides tighten.

"I feel like you're breaking up with me and we aren't even together,” Stiles laughs, bitter and expandingly loud. He’s gripping his hands into fists, shoulder’s taut and jaw clenched. It feels like they’re standing two months back in the forest, Stiles in his red hoodie, angry and closed off and Derek chasing after him. Stiles won’t look at him in the eye.

Derek cards a hand through his own hair, sighing.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you always apologizing?” Stiles says, voice breaking at the end. He shakes himself of it, adding, “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

He holds in the ‘sorry’, and clears his throat. “I actually have an interview with your dad today,” he pulls out his phone, wincing. “An interview I’m running late to. Can we talk more later?”

Stiles looks up, finally, eyes wide, like he just noticed Derek sweating in a maroon suit. There’s a slight upturn of his lips and he takes another step back, away from Derek’s personal space. 

“No. I think I just need to work this out on my own. Go get em, tiger,” he says, deflated and creaky. His sneakers squeak when he turns around to leave. Derek pauses, then turns to pull the door shut when Stiles speaks up again.

“You’ll do great,” Stiles says sincerely, turning on his heels to give Derek one final look. He smiles, a real one, both proud and tinged with a twisting sadness, it makes Derek reach out. He brushes their fingers together.

“Thank you, Stiles.”

Stiles nods again, turns back, and leaves.


	3. so aim high. aim true

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spring comes again, after a short winter. A whole year gone by.

The spring comes, followed by a lazy summer of oppressive heat. They all bleed a little more, face more death and danger, leaning on each other bruised and broken. Peter manipulates and weaves his way through them, close enough that he almost kills Scott until Lydia screams so loud it makes his eyes bleed. Scott ends him, because Scott is so beyond Peter; power, true, a confident leader.

They cremate him and scatter the ash and bones along the California border so he can’t come back a second time. Derek doesn’t feel any remorse.

The spring comes again, after a short winter. A whole year gone by.

Derek hasn’t seen much of Stiles aside from bloodied fights and surviving another day. They still can’t figure out how to stop the nemeton, but it seems subdued now that Peter isn’t tapping into its power.

And it'd been so hard. Seeing Stiles every day for months and then suddenly not seeing him was one of the hardest things. He knows it’s his fault, that he should’ve talked about it more, but Derek got accepted into the deputy program and Stiles had lacrosse, school, more and more excuses piled up.

There’s a few days of light drizzle, so Derek doesn’t have to go check the patches to see if they’re okay. And when he does go, he’s surprised to see a patch of dandelions growing beside the dampened peonies, those pesky weeds springing up over the short stalks of the flowers. 

Not all of the plants Stiles grew made it through the downpour and the unfortunately hot summer that followed. He knows Stiles up-kept them during the year, though they stopped coming to the patches at the same time. They stopped hanging out at all, just like Derek suspected would happen. Too busy with their own lives, too busy remodeling themselves. 

Derek’s worked his deputy job for 8 months now. A new house that smells like the woods. He fixes it up on his days off. He takes his time, trying to forget the feeling of Stiles’ lips and his hands. Working him out of his skin and system. It’s not always easy. Nothing is, for Derek, but he manages.

+|+

 

Derek’s in the evidence room sorting through boxes and boxes of mislabelled items when the clack of Lydia’s heels catch his ear. They stop a few feet away from the door, close to Parrish’s desk and there’s the sound of the desk creaking and a smack of lips. Derek has an immense urge to hide behind the stacks when he hears his name in her register, determined and forceful, but the door swings open, revealing Lydia. She has a purse hanging off the crook of her raised arm, and she looks bored.

“Hello, Derek,” she says in greeting. He winces minutely, setting down the box he has protectively over his chest.

“Stiles’ birthday is this weekend and it’d be nice if you could attend,” she says, getting right to it.

“Did he-”

“No,” she sighs. “I thought it’d be good for you to come. You’re still pack,” she says carefully. “And you’re still important to him. It’s the last free weekend anyone will have before graduation.”

“I’ll think about it,” he says, flatly.

“Good. I’ll text you the details.”

+|+

Derek ends up at the Stilinski’s house after a gruelling double shift. He’s tired and looks like shit and he’d rather be home, but this is the last chance for what, he’s not even sure.

Stiles looks surprised to see him, eyes tracking over his rumbled uniform and messy hair that gives Derek that lurch in his stomach like it’s brand new.

“Derek? What are you doing here?”

Shit. Derek forgot the note about it being a surprise party. He thinks quickly.

“Your dad said he had some work for me in his home office. An open case he needs a second opinion on.”

“Uh, okay. Come in,” Stiles sidesteps to let Derek in. Derek swings into the study, grabbing a manila folder at random off of the desk. He makes a mental note to return it later.

Stiles is waiting for him by the door frame. He looks relaxed, eyes bright and curious. The year has been good for him, he can see. There’s no more worry lines creasing his brow, his skin back to a fresh pale, no longer tanned from working on gardening in the cool winter afternoons of high sun. 

He looks like a new person. Someone who has grown and changed, all without Derek. Derek knows vaguely that Malia and Stiles had a thing going, good for him in a way Derek could never be. He doesn’t know if they're still a thing, but the way Stiles is watching him burns away all doubt, all of the past year’s restraint. And for once, he doesn't feel afraid of it.

“How are you?” Derek asks, polite.

Stiles shrugs, dropping his gaze. “I’m good. It’s my birthday today, actually.”

Derek feigns surprise. “Oh, happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” Stiles smiles, rueful. “Waiting for pops to come home so we can go to dinner.”

“What, no crazy senior party?” Stiles laughs, rolling his eyes.

“I think I’ve been through enough of those to know they end badly.”

Derek’s phone beeps and he checks it. As usual, it’s a perfectly timed message from Lydia.

_Change of plans. Sheriff bringing him to party_

_With him now_ , Derek responds, wishing he could back out. He hides a yawn.

“I’m going to head out,” he says through a second yawn. “I worked a double and someone before me mixed up all the evidence.”

Stiles winces in sympathy and moves forward. There’s an awkward second where Stiles extends his arms like he’s going to pull Derek in for a hug, but recoils, deciding against it. He gives Derek a friendly punch to the arm instead.

“Get out of here, then.”

Derek nods at him. “See you later, Stiles. Have a good night.”

He heads back to his car and moves it a street down until the Sheriff gets home. He listens to their idle chatter, then follows the jeep to some chain restaurant he’s never been to. In the parking lot, he makes sure that the card he bought Stiles is still there. It’s a little crinkled. Just a simple, generic greeting card he scribbled in late at night after a long shift. 

He’s missed the big reveal when he steps into the restaurant, the chatter loud and lively. He can pick out Stiles laughing loudly with Scott and Kira above the noise. Even Liam, Scott’s accidental beta is there, drinking a coke while Malia bumps shoulders with him.

Lydia’s apparently rented out the whole restaurant, and the place is littered with Stiles’ friends and a couple of deputies. Jordan is even there, his hand fitted loosely on Lydia’s waist while he chats with another deputy. 

Scott spots Derek first and gives him a wave. Stiles is next to him, laughing uproariously again, tilting back onto Scott’s space. Lydia sees him next and nods to him with something of a hint of a smile.

Derek gets pulled into a conversation about work from some of the other deputies when Stiles comes around, grinning close-lipped and bumps his shoulder to Derek’s.

“Nice diversion tactic back there,” he says, eyebrows lifted in amusement.

Derek smiles, keeping his eyes trained on Stiles’.

“I honestly forgot it was supposed to be a surprise.” Stiles laughs, head tilting back. 

“Well, thanks for coming. This is awesome and I’m glad you’re here. Do you think,” he bites his lip, one fist mashing into his open one like he has a baseball mitt on, “that after this, we could talk?”

He feels himself nodding, feels the electric tingle in his stomach when Stiles grins, real and dazzling. He bumps Derek’s shoulder with his one last time. 

“Great.”

They don’t have much time to talk during the party. The Sheriff pulls Stiles into a headlock and announces a toast, holding a can of Bud in his hand.

“Thanks for being here, everybody! This is to celebrate my kid. He’s a handful, and the best thing that’s ever happened to my life,” he releases Stiles, turning to him with his arm over his shoulder. “Stiles, even though I haven’t been able to eat bacon for the past 3 years, I still love you, because I know you do it because you care. I don’t think I know anyone who cares more than you, kiddo. And you’re going to continue to care and do great things,” Stiles is grinning so wide, eyes glistening in the dim lighting.

“Scott,” he raises his other arm out for Scott, who looks confused but comes over to the Sheriff’s side. “Boys, it’s a very special honor for me to tell you, from permission from Melissa, that you boys are going to be official Bruins!”

The crowd cheers and Scott and Stiles collide, hollering and whooping. Derek claps along, making eye contact with Stiles, who breaks out into a face-splitting grin.

Derek slips out after dessert, feeling sluggish and worn thin. But Stiles follows him, hands casually stuffed in his pockets, still energetic and cheerful from the evening. Stiles’ eyes are warm and he gives Derek a smile, a real one, the one that makes him look young and goofy. 

“Thanks again for coming, dude.”

Derek nods in response, their footsteps aligning as they walk to his car. It’s a quiet, spring night. Still chilly enough for a jacket. Stiles leans on his heels, crossing his arm over his chest. His head is turned up at the sky, dark and cloudy with a waning moon, and smiles, shaking his head to himself.

“I got in. I mean, isn’t that insane? We made it and I’m going to college!”

Derek nods, smiling. “I told you you would make it.”

“I’ll let you have this ‘I told you so’, because I’m so freaking excited, dude!” He pushes himself off the car, grinning. “And I honestly cannot thank you enough. For what happened last year? You pushed me so much and you were right about us being just friends. Cause, I don’t think I could’ve handled that. It would’ve been a rash decision and I don’t know.” Derek winces, prickly shame all over again.

“Doing that, it hurt. But I got my shit together, for real. So thank you, for being level headed, back when it was all,” he waves his hands around. “But yeah! I leave in two months and it wouldn't have been possible- couldn’t have done this without you,” Stiles finishes, smiling softly, cheeks flushed.

“No need to thank me. And congratulations,” Derek says, when what he really wants to say is, “I was wrong” or “I’m ready now’ or “Stay”. But it’d be cruel, when Stiles has moved on, when last spring’s flowers have withered and died and rebloomed, stronger, better than before. Derek does his best not to trample them, and not to tread heavy on Stiles’ new path. 

“You’re going to do great,” he says. He knows it’s true. 

+|+

 

Derek wakes up on the third ring. 

“Stiles?” he asks, dazed and groggy. He’d been leaning against the tree in the patch, the one he started to call his, his fingers brushing against wild white cloves and dandelions when he dozed off.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“Yeah,” his voice is scratchy and he yawns, but sits up.

“I’m driving, right now. Dad’s behind me and we’re almost out of Beacon and I just felt like, well you were the last person I left here with. And I got nervous. So I called you,” he rushes out on one exhale. 

“You’re leaving for LA today,” he says, like it hasn’t been marked on his calendar for the past two months. Like he didn’t go to sleep last night, wanting to tell Stiles how much he means to him and not to forget him.

Stiles sighs, soft. “Yeah. Um, is it okay if I stay on the phone with you? Until I pass the sign?”

“Of course.” He closes his eyes, concentrating on the streams of sound until he can hear the familiar rattle of Stiles’ jeep, just barely there underneath the chirping of birds and the rush of saturday traffic.

A few more moments pass and Stiles exhales again, tinny and distant in Derek’s ear. “Okay.”  
Stiles exhales. “Made it through. No crazy following behind.”

“Good,” Derek says he keeps his eyes shut, focused in on the jeep, fainter now.

“Hey, uh thanks. And before I hang up, remember to take care. The flowers I mean, and you know, yourself too. Take care of yourself, Derek.”

“I’ll try to. Goodbye, Stiles.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Stiles ends, hesitating before the line goes dead.

Derek opens his eyes, dropping his focus.

The sound of Stiles’ jeep fades, the echo of the rattle clear in his head.

 

_“My knees are bent like the corner of a page. I am saving your place.” -Andrea Gibson_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of part one in a very long the never simple, never easy verse!
> 
> I would like to give a huge thank you to everyone who encouraged me to continue writing this. This includes Lamson, Shannon, Jaimie and all of the wonderful alpha readers who read through and gave me great concrit on where I needed to take the story.
> 
> This story means more to me than anyone will ever know. I lost my mom this year and just like Stiles learned how to cope, I wrote this to cope. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. I'm working on the next parts of the verse right now, but I don't have a set deadline for when I'm going to release it just yet.
> 
> As always, you can find me [here](http://mccallientes.tumblr.com/)! Feel free to shoot me an ask

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me [here](http://snapbackobrien.tumblr.com/)


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